


Aquiver

by Junejuly15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Arrogant Sherlock, Assistant Molly Hooper, BAMF John Watson, Confessions, Drug Use, Fashion Designer James Moriarty, Fashion Designer Sherlock Holmes, Fashion photographer Greg Lestrade, First Kiss, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Misunderstandings, No-nonsense John Watson, PA John Watson, Protective Mycroft, Romance, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock and John coming to grips with their feelings, Sherlock and John photoshoot, Strawberry Flavoured Kisses, Teasing, UST, after-show party, eventually, night talk, rumours and threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-18 14:44:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5932105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junejuly15/pseuds/Junejuly15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a successful and arrogant fashion designer and John Watson his new PA. Of course, sparks fly between them</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Rough Start

**Author's Note:**

> I have to say that I don't know more about High Fashion than what I gleaned from reading the odd glossy magazine. Sherlock and John's fashion world and all that is happening within this world is entirely my imagination and if there are blatant mistakes an insider would not have made, please forgive me and enjoy reading nonetheless :)

_Not the black piping, stupid woman! Charcoal grey is the one we want, black is harsh and we don't want harshness in this piece. How often do I have to tell you?_

_Red lining? Are you out of your mind? I undoubtedly said dark purple silk – and not red taffeta! I can't believe it! Who is responsible for this massive cock-up?_

_Bring her here! Now! - For God's sakes, I will strangle her!_

John Watson cocked his head and glanced at the door. Straining his ears he made out the muffled reply of a female voice, the words indiscernible, and then the booming baritone with the ability to drown out everything and everyone roared again.

_What are you on about? You can’t be serious! I most definitely did not give the order to change the colour and the fabric of the lining myself!_

_How dare you say that? You stupid idiot!_

_Well, what are you? An imbecile or just plain ignorant? Get out or I will forget myself!_

John frowned and looked around, nervously licking his lips – The brisk elderly lady at the temping agency had told him that the famous Sherlock Holmes had a temper, but nobody had taken a moment to prepare him for this level of verbal abuse. For a moment he seriously considered leaving and just forgetting the prospect of a few months of paid work. He would get by without the money, he had a few savings. There was no way he was going to put up with this kind of abuse. He'd had his share of that in the army.

He was out of the visitor’s chair and turning to leave when the huge wooden doors leading to the showroom flew open and the man in question stormed into the little ante-room serving as an office. After the yelling he had been witness to it was as if John was caught in the eye of a hurricane, judging by the stillness which seemed to surround him all of a sudden.

Slowly he turned back and his eyes were immediately drawn to the man who had entered the room. The body to the voice. Fashion designer Sherlock Holmes. The papers John was holding slipped from his hands and his mouth fell open in an unbecoming fashion.

The man standing in front of him, legs apart and arms akimbo, had pale skin accentuated by a flush on his sharp cheekbones. Plush pink lips, slightly parted, were crowned by the most ridiculously beautiful Cupid’s bow, and his piercing eyes were sparkling with fury. His mane of dark curls was deliciously dishevelled and his tall, lean body tense with indignation. His fingers were drumming a nervous rhythm onto his narrow hips and John's eyes were drawn to them, helplessly noticing the elegant shape of his hands and the manicured fingernails.

Not surprisingly he was dressed to the nines in an immaculate black tight-fitting suit, perfectly teamed up with a white shirt and a skinny black tie. Involuntarily John licked his lips and a small smile played around his lips. What a bloody fine man, he thought.

‘What the fuck are _you_ doing here?’

A sentence like a slap, the words spat out in such a spiteful way that John’s delightful thoughts crash-landed on the gleaming wooden floor. He blinked and peered around to check if it was really him who was addressed in such a rude way.

‘Are you talking to me?‘

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes, which he apparently deemed answer enough, and John cleared his throat to hide a trace of embarrassment.

‘I’m John Watson. The temping agency sent me. I’m your stand-in PA.’

John extended a hand which was pointedly ignored. The only reaction his outstretched hand elicited from Sherlock Holmes was the lifting of one immaculate eyebrow.

‘Are you now?’

Sherlock let his hands slide from his hips and advanced to where John was standing. He walked slowly, dangerously slow, like a lithe, elegant black panther approaching its prey. He fixed his eyes on John and meticulously gave him the once-over. He started to circle him to better take in his whole appearance, letting his eyes run along the broad shoulders, gliding down the stocky body, back and thighs evidently muscular and firm. John felt his skin tingle in response to this scrutiny and the close proximity of this man. Eventually Sherlock stood in front of John, deliberately close, barely a foot away.

‘You know who I am?’

‘Yes - yes, of course. The agency told me and I know your work.’

‘Do you now?’

Another lifting of the eyebrow which made John feel immediately uneasy. This close he could not help but noticing the man's unusual eyes. They were of a clear blue-green and they were truly mesmerizing. _And_ they did strange things to John’s self-esteem. Suddenly he felt underdressed and overweight, feeling every ounce of the three pounds he had put on since he had left the army and the regular training behind.

‘Well, if you know who I am and what I do how dare you come here in such lamentable attire?’

His low voice was like velvet and his tone was superficially friendly, but the underlying steel was unmistakable. John looked down and with a frown he took in his beloved navy chinos and dark green polo shirt. Granted, his dark brown loafers hadn’t been cleaned recently and he unobtrusively wiped the right one on the back of his trousers, but apart from that? He looked up at Sherlock Holmes and shrugged.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically.

‘Oh my! A man of taste!’ he said sarcastically. ‘That won’t do. No, not at all! If you want to work for me we’ll have to change you. Suit, shirt, ties, shoes, the whole lot.’

He abruptly turned away from John and barked for his assistant, ‘Chloe? Here!’

‘What do you mean – change me? I’m not going to be changed!' John bent down and picked up the agency papers from the floor. He waved them in front of Sherlock's face. 'Nobody told me that being your PA required anything else than helping you to organise your diary or whatever it is you want to delegate. As far as I see, I will not be hired as your personal lapdog, so there's no need for my _attire_ to match your suit.’

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned back to John. There was an amused glint in his slanted eyes.

‘The agency told you what I was looking for, I presume?’

‘I – um – yes, as I said they told me that you needed - a PA.’

John was astounded that he was stammering and tried to get a grip, _for God’s sakes_. He didn’t miss the amusement glimmering in Sherlock’s eyes although the rest of his face had remained impassive.

‘Admirably put. Indeed, a PA is what I need. This PA, my dear John Watson, is with me at all times. And when I say, all times – that’s what I mean. You will grant my every wish, you will run when I say run and you will love it.’

‘Oh, will I?’

John couldn’t suppress a feeling of anticipation, excitement even when he envisioned being near this man - all the time and everywhere. But he was also irritated by this treatment. Nevertheless, he chose to remain silent.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock closed the gap between them and leaned down to whisper in John’s ear, so close that his breath was tickling his skin, ‘You _will_!’

John closed his eyes and gulped. Sherlock quickly moved away from him leaving a swirling vacuum where his velvety voice had been.

‘And I need you to be pleasing, aesthetically pleasing to my eye when I have you around me all the time. Surely you understand?’

Sherlock smirked and John glanced at his own clothes again, he still couldn’t see why they were so aesthetically displeasing.

‘What happened to your last PA?’ John asked curiously, challenging him, ‘How come you need a replacement so suddenly?

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately, he was weighing his options, but then he decided to be blunt.

‘He didn’t want to share me, so he had to go.’

He openly studied John who seemed surprised - and irritated. Sherlock liked that, liked that he had riled this John Watson, liked even more that he had bitten back, that he had a backbone apparently. Good! This might prove interesting indeed. Sherlock made a mental note to send the agency a little thank-you card. Or maybe better wait until tomorrow.

‘Ah - Chloe! There you are! How long does it take you to walk ten yards from one room to the other?’

Chloe glowered at him, a look of long-standing suffering on her face. She wisely chose to remain silent.

‘Chloe, get one of our grey suits, one of the darker ones. A matching shirt and tie. New brogues – … size eight, no seven and a half. And black socks, from our silk line.’

He shooed her away with a quick motion of his pale, slender fingers. John followed this little exchange attentively. He found it amusing and a tiny bit unsettling - What the bloody hell had he gotten himself into?

 

 

**********

 

 

‘There you go!’

Chloe turned John around to face Sherlock.

Sherlock took a step backwards and assessed his new PA. For a second his gaze was unguarded and John saw something more in those eyes than mere cold professionalism. He saw a gleam of mischief and he saw interest.

John smiled at this realisation and Sherlock mirrored this smile for a moment before his mask firmly slipped back into place. But John had seen it and as a consequence he felt less apprehensive and was able to relax. John turned back to the mirror, admiring his new look.

‘Well, John Watson. I dare say this is an altogether different affair. Don't you agree?’

Sherlock came up behind John, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He patted John’s suited shoulders and then reached around him to adjust the tie. What was obviously intended as a professional gesture was spoiled by the fact that he was effectively embracing John and that he let his hands linger just that fraction of a second too long on the lapels of his suit. They locked eyes in the mirror and John felt his skin tingle again.

Briskly Sherlock turned away and grabbed some papers from the large mahogany desk. With effortless elegance he swirled around and snatched his coat and scarf from the chair before he breezed out of the office. Over his shoulder he called, ‘No time to be idle, John. Off we go!’

John nodded a thank you to Chloe who just shrugged and turned away. He grabbed his briefcase from the visitor chair and followed Sherlock down the stairs. Only then did he realise that Sherlock Holmes hadn’t bothered to ask to see any references or enquired about his previous work experience as a PA.

‘John! Hurry!’

The smooth baritone boomed from somewhere lower down and John hurried to follow his new employer. He caught up with him on the busy street. Sherlock was standing at the curb, waiting. John came to a halt next to him.

After a few moments he felt Sherlock’s steely gaze on him, ‘Well?’

‘Well _what_?’

‘Aren't you going to hail a cab?’

‘Should I?’

‘Obviously. I’m certainly not going to do it. What do you think I have a PA for?

‘Yeah – right.’

John felt like an idiot and quickly raised his arm to flag down one of the passing black cabs.

He got in after Sherlock and settled down in the plush seats of the cab. Sherlock fiddled with his phone, incessantly typing messages, cursing colourfully under his breath from time to time. John found it strangely exciting to hear those coarse insults coming from such a beautiful mouth. He briefly wondered what Sherlock would sound like in bed … Clearing his throat to chase away this mental image, he turned his face to the window.

He felt a blush creeping up his neck and Sherlock quickly glanced up at him. John did not notice his gaze and continued staring out of the window, glimpsing parts of London whooshing by. He deemed it wise to empty his mind from any disturbing image, and to simply sit back and wait until his employer had further use for him.

After twenty minutes the cab stopped in front of a tiny shop somewhere in the back streets of Marylebone.

‘Go fetch the fabric samples.’

‘A _please John_ wouldn’t come amiss, actually.’

Sherlock didn’t bother to look up from his phone, but merely raised an amused eyebrow. John sighed and got out of the cab, but couldn’t for the life of him see a shop he would deem suitable for that kind of errand. He leaned down into the cab.

‘Where?’

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly and pointed vaguely into a direction, still not looking up from his phone.

After several of such little errands and some more befuddlement on John’s behalf they returned to the large apartment in Islington in the late evening. To John’s surprise he found that it doubled not only as a studio-cum-showroom, but as Sherlock’s home as well.

 

 

*********

 

 

‘Make yourself at home, John,’ Sherlock waved his right hand indicating the large living room furnished with two large sofas, several chairs, coffee tables and countless bookshelves running along two entire walls of the vast room, overflowing with books and magazines. A cosy fire was crackling in the white marble fireplace and a tray with a silver cloche and a bottle of wine and two glasses was waiting on one of the low coffee tables.

‘I’ll get changed.’

Sherlock disappeared through a door which John assumed to be the one to the bedroom or to the walk-in wardrobe or maybe to yet another living room – Everything seemed probable in this enormous flat.

Idly John let his gaze wander through the tastefully furnished living room. It was dominated by high stuccoed ceilings, white walls and heavy cream velvet curtains adorning the wide windows. The furniture was predominantly white with a splash of muted colours – no pinks, no frills, no nonsense - after all it was a man’s habitation. Muted lights and the crackling fire rendered the large room cosy and warm and for the first time John felt the tiredness of a long and exciting day.

Slowly he walked over to one of the bookshelves and started perusing the rows of books. He found a large volume on the history of military uniforms and became so immersed that he was startled when all of a sudden Sherlock’s baritone boomed.

‘Ah, a lover of the fine arts. Excellent!’

Sherlock sashayed back into the living room. If he had planned to unsettle John with the outfit he had chosen, he could mark that down as a success. Impressed, John let his gaze roam over his employer's body, clad in a black silk pyjama, topped off by a black silk dressing gown which billowed out behind Sherlock like the feathers of a sinister peacock. He looked simply fantastic, completely at ease with himself, and John gulped around a lump in his throat.

A blush crept up John's neck, irritating him, and he dipped his chin and fumbled with the large book he was still holding in his hands. He was grateful for the opportunity to turn around and face the shelf while cramming the book back onto it.

Sherlock gave no sign of having noticed John’s flustered state and sat down on one of the sofas. He patted the empty space next to him, ‘John, come here.’

John raised an eyebrow questioningly, ‘I think I’ve made it clear that I am not your lapdog, Mr Holmes.’

‘Sherlock, please. Indeed, you have and what an admirable move that was.’

‘Admirable?' John could not help but smile 'Right - Okay.’

‘And I think I have it made it clear that as my PA you have to grant my every wish. And asking you to sit next to me is not an entirely unreasonable request, don’t you think?’

‘Probably not,’ John conceded. His smile widened when he walked over to the sofa. Sitting down, he kept a decent distance between them. Sherlock did not approve it seemed, and moved closer.

‘John,’ he dropped his voice a notch knowing that this was usually effective and got him what he wanted.

‘Sherlock?’ John answered, unfazed.

‘I was wondering if you would like to stay?’

‘Is that a vital part of my job description?’

‘It is if it makes it easier for you.’

‘Why should it make it easier?’

‘Well, you could always tell yourself that you had to because I told you so.’

‘What makes you think I don’t want to...’ John moved a bit closer, '... stay?’

Sherlock shrugged, ‘Oh, it's obvious you want to. In fact, I think you’re dying to, but I also think that you are not entirely comfortable with the thought - yet.’

‘That’s where you are wrong, Sherlock.’ John leaned forward, closer to him, so close that he could see the fine laughter lines around Sherlock's eyes and smell the scent of the expensive aftershave clinging to the pale, delicate skin. He widened his nostrils and inhaled deeply. It was a raw and daring thing to do, and it made Sherlock shiver.

'I would be very comfortable with the thought, Mr Sherlock Holmes,' he whispered. He lifted his hand, and softly trailed his index finger along Sherlock's jaw. 'But I also want you to know that I consider myself not so easily bought.'

John let his hand drop to his lap and sat back, breaking the spell. He would be lying if he told himself that he was not enjoying the look of confusion on Sherlock's face. Slapping his hands on his thighs John got up and walked over to the door. His hand lightly resting on the door handle he asked.

'When do you want me to start in the morning?'

Sherlock bit his lips and fought back the emotions threatening to surface. With the best impassive face he could muster he faced John and answered. 'Ten o'clock sharp.' He got up, his feelings under control again. 'Make sure you're on time, I abhor tardiness.'

The sharply spoken words hanging between them, he walked over to the window, turning his back to John Watson. After a moment he heard him opening and closing the living room door and then he was alone in his vast flat.


	2. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two, here we go: There's a meddling brother, a lot of hard work, infuriated seamstresses, an interesting photoshoot and an even more interesting night out - Enjoy reading :)

The shrill ringing of his mobile brought Sherlock back to his senses. Impatiently he snatched it out of the pocket of his dressing gown.

'What?'

'And a very good evening to you too, dear brother.'

'Clearly. What do you want?'

'John Watson.'

'What about him?'

'What do you think of him?'

'How do you _know_ about him? No, don't tell me. One of your countless minions blabbed to you.'

'I have no intention of starting an argument, Sherlock. I merely called to enquire about your new PA.'

'What's it to you anyway? How come I only hear from you whenever there's a change, however minor, in my life?'

'I worry about you, Sherlock.'

Sherlock's mouth formed a moue of distaste, the desire to be left alone making him snappy and impatient.

'Well, don't! Goodnight, Mycroft.'

Sherlock ended the call and carelessly dropped his mobile onto the sofa. Sighing he pressed his cool palms against his tired eyes to help ease the dull pain which had started throbbing behind his eyes and in his temples. After a long day he was exhausted, but the chance of a good night's sleep had left with John Watson, so he could just as well spend the night working on his designs. He tightened the belt around his dressing gown, grabbed the bottle of wine from the coffee table and without bothering to switch on any lights, he walked through the dark rooms of his flat until he reached his studio.

Inside he switched on the lamp on his desk and placed the bottle next to it. The bright light revealed an array of unfinished designs for his upcoming collection. Dozens of drawings were strewn about his vast desk, the details of trousers and jackets and shirts devilishly grinning up at him. The pressure of coming up with something new and innovative for this season made him feel nauseous.

Especially inspiration for his women's line - exclusive evening wear, his first designs for women ever - proved more evasive than he had anticipated. However, difficulties usually spurned him on, he had always been extraordinarily ambitious combined with an absolute will to succeed. Creating a women's line would open up a whole new market for him, even if the silhouette of a ball gown did not flow as easily onto the paper as the lines of a suit. With a sigh he shut the door and sat down to work through the night.

 

 

*********

 

 

John Watson had left Sherlock Holmes' flat with a smug grin on his face and a spring in his steps. God, it had felt so good to give this brat the low-down! Admittedly, he was a rather gorgeous brat, and one John wouldn't mind getting involved with, whatever _involved with_ might mean. Not that he saw any long-term perspectives in a man like Sherlock Holmes, but a fling? Why not?

The night outside eagerly swallowed John Watson and enveloped him in its pleasantly mellow air. He decided to walk towards the little bed-sit he called home these days, surprised by how alive and vigorous he felt.

After a quick pint in his corner pub he finally went home, feeling very fine in his dapper suit. Whistling under his breath, he realised that he was very much looking forward to the next day, and the ones after that.

 

 

*********

 

 

Sherlock Holmes was the current star of British men's haute couture, the darling of all the glossy magazines, admired for his classic designs with an edge, loved by customers and critics alike. The prospect of a future _Sherlock Holmes Women's Line_ only added to the buzz.

Nevertheless he also had a reputation of being distant and extremely hard to work with, a control freak, a despot. Paired with his outstanding success, it was no wonder that most of his fellow designer colleagues, men and women alike, disliked him. Especially those who had the misfortune to have had their shoddy craftsmanship and their corner-cutting exposed in a _Vogue_ feature last season. Nobody knew for sure if Sherlock Holmes had been the one behind it, but it was a widely spread rumour.

Against his brother Mycroft's express wish Sherlock had done nothing to dissipate those rumours. _Old news_ according to Sherlock, who, while acutely aware of everything going on in the British couturier circle, had more important things on his mind than _gossip_. Despite, he could not care less as _enemies were more reliable and predictable than friends_ , as he told John, and enemies he seemed to have a few indeed.

 

 

*********

 

 

John Watson quickly learned the ropes of his new job. He worked closely with Sherlock, coordinating most of his personal affairs as well as large parts of his professional life.

Sherlock was initially very busy putting the finishing touches to his designs. This was followed by the tailoring, which meant Sherlock monitoring the seamstresses, the ones breathing actual life into his designs. Obviously he was keeping a watchful eye on even the tiniest detail. Nothing short of absolute perfection would do. Unsurprisingly this meant a lot of bossing around and at times the mood in the studio was more than explosive.

John had been on the receiving end of Sherlock Holmes' temper once or twice before he found out that he could play this game just as well. He answered back, realising that he had a knack of dealing with Sherlock when he was in one of those moods. More than once he managed to defuse the explosive atmosphere, placating Chloe and Mrs Hudson, the chief seamstress, ready to quit for good on more than occasion. Countless muffled conversations in the little office kitchen had followed, sorely needed to calm Sherlock's employees, and John had gladly let them vent their anger on him.

'He's a madman and his goings-on drive me up the wall, but he's a true genius,' Mrs Hudson had said during one of those conversations, the angry frown on her friendly, wrinkled face soon replaced by a smile. 'He's one of the best, a master of his craft.' With a wink she had added, 'Please don't tell him, John, or we will never hear the end of it!'

Whether Sherlock noticed or even appreciated John's influence, nobody could say, least of all John.

 

 

*********

 

 

One week before Sherlock's highly anticipated runway show at the London Fashion Week John was busy sending out the last batch of the coveted invitations (black ink on handmade cream-coloured paper), infuriating some celebrities and pleasing many others. When John mentioned to Sherlock that the PA of a celebrity had pestered him for days, Sherlock merely shrugged. 'Boring! I trust you with this entirely, John.' But then he insisted on knowing the PA's name.

'Donovan, I think,' John rifled through his list. 'Yes, Sally Donovan.'

'Right, get her an invitation.'

'Why?'

'Let's say, there's some history between us.'

'Potentially harmful history?'

Sherlock looked up at him. 'Quite so, John.'

'All right, then. Invitation's on the way to Ms Donovan.'

'Good.' Sherlock hesitated before he added, 'What about that _Vogue_ woman?'

'Irene Adler?'

Sherlock nodded and John could not quite read his expression, it looked carefully arranged to him.

'She received hers with the first wave three weeks ago.'

'Interview's fixed?'

John checked his diary. 'Yes -' his finger flew down the relevant page, 'On the day of the show.'

'Splendid!' Sherlock graced John with the flicker of a smile before he turned his attention back to a black sequined gown lying on the huge table in front of him.

 

 

*********

 

 

The last two days leading up to the show were a hectic flurry of final touches to the collections, and a parade of male and female models in the showroom. Sherlock, immaculate as always in one of his own designs, was presiding over the proceedings like a monarch over an assembly, choosing the appropriate models with the lift of an eyebrow, sending away the dark, brooding types and favouring the athletic, Nordic ones in the men, whereas he favoured the brunettes over the blondes in the women.

'What do you think, John?' he would ask once in an while, his face impassive, and John would nod or shake his head, taking the set cards of the models chosen. He noticed that quite a few of them winked at Sherlock and one or two tried to slip him note. He also noticed that Sherlock did not react to a single one.

In the evening, Sherlock's showroom was the venue for a photoshoot for _Elle_. The quality of the photos were of the utmost importance and Gregory Lestrade, London's leading fashion photographer, had been hired for the job. Everybody was ready, itching to go, but the man himself was running late. A text message informed Sherlock that at least his assistant Molly Hooper would be arriving shortly.

'Where's Graham?' Sherlock barked at her when she came through the door. He detested waiting. If any waiting had to be done, it should be the other way around, people should be waiting for him!

'He's running late, Mr Holmes.' Molly Hooper answered, stating the obvious, and let the heavy equipment she was carrying slide from her shoulder. It landed on the parquet floor with an audible thud and Sherlock raised an irritated eyebrow. 'This morning's job took longer than anticipated because two of the models had to be replaced at short notice. They were ...'

'Too many details, Hooper.'

'Of course, Mr Holmes,' Molly turned away and made a funny face at John who had to stop himself from laughing out loud. He stepped forward and introduced himself, 'John Watson, Mr Holmes' PA. Pleased to meet you Ms Hooper.'

'Molly, please. Ditto.'

'John, then.'

Molly nodded and started to unpack the equipment, her swift and professional demeanour indicating that any assistance John could offer would hinder her more than help. John curtly nodded to himself and then went over to Sherlock who was leaning against the window pane, gazing outside, a far away look on his face.

'All right?' John asked.

'Yes - yes. Don't fuss!'

Some commotion at the far end of the showroom signalled the arrival of someone demanding all attention, and it saved John from replying. The man strutting into the room was relatively tall with an athletic body, clad in black jeans and a dark grey linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A black, battered leather jacket, slung over his shoulder, dark biker boots on his feet and a black belt with silver studs finished off the ensemble which screamed _independent spirit!_ and _artist!_ But the most striking feature was his shock of silver hair, complementing a youthful and suntanned face in the most appealing way. John cleared his throat and glanced at Sherlock who had turned around to see what the commotion was about.

'Graham! So glad you could _make_ it!'

Lestrade came over to greet Sherlock and John. Ignoring the sarcasm he slapped Sherlock on the shoulder, eliciting an annoyed sigh, and then offered his hand to John.

'It's Greg actually. Greg Lestrade. You're John, I presume? Heard a lot about _you_!'

'Oh? Only good things, I hope! Pleased to meet you.'

Lestrade winked at him and then joined Molly, helping her to set up the flood lights. John immediately took to Gregory Lestrade, as most people seemed to. Even Sherlock appeared more at ease than usual.

'John, check if the models are ready, will you?' The corners of Sherlock's mouth briefly lifted in a tiny, tired smile.

'Right - okay.'

They worked through the night and it was worth every minute as Lestrade's photos turned out to be fantastic, setting off Sherlock's designs beautifully. Throughout the shoot John was happy to watch, eager to learn and he was enjoying himself immensely. But when he glanced at Sherlock from time to time, he found him frowning, with a deep furrow between his brows, a flush on his cheeks and his body tense, and John realised the huge amount of pressure Sherlock Holmes must feel all the time.

 

 

*********

 

 

On the evening before the show John was working late when Sherlock came to his small office and sat down on the edge of his cluttered desk. John lifted a finger, indicating Sherlock to remain silent as he was on the phone, giving out last orders to the ushers. Patiently Sherlock waited until he had finished and then he said.

'Enough, John. Grab your coat. We're going out!'

 

 

*********

 

 

The music was loud, a steady rhythm pumping through the exclusive club, purple, red and blue lights pulsating, illuminating a throng of bodies moving on the dance floor. Gorgeous men, in suits and well-groomed some of them, others more leaning towards the expensive hipster variety, with a handful of beautiful women scattered among them. Most of them were dancing alone, enjoying themselves in their solitary, but evidently blissful bubble. John thought he recognised some of the faces from yesterday, models most likely.

A young waiter ushered Sherlock and John discreetly to a private booth in the back of the club where heavy curtains dulled the music considerably, thus allowing conversation if wished. Sherlock opened the buttons of his jacket before he slumped down on the low squishy sofa, inviting John to sit down next to him.

'Nice,' John said.

'Private club, hence discreet. Mainly models, designers, managers, musicians. Guarantees a certain class. No journalists either, and if one should stumble in here, the manager will tell me and we're off.'

'Why?'

Sherlock shrugged, 'Some things better stay secret.'

'But not ...' Through the wide gap in the curtains John indicated the men dancing and the male couple engaged in kissing at the bar.

  
'Don't be silly, John. I'm gay and that's a known fact. No need to hide it.' He turned to John, his undivided attention focused on him.

'Not so sure about you, though,' Sherlock smirked and nodded a curt thank you to the waiter who placed a bottle of Moet and two crystal champagne flutes on the low table. He slipped the young man a note and waved him away before he expertly opened the bottle with only the slightest of pops. John wetted his lips in anticipation.

'I'm...' John started to say, but chose to savour the amber liquid first in an attempt to help along what he intended to say. 'I'm open for a lot of things,' he finally said.

Sherlock sat back, turning the delicate stem of the glass between his fingers. The corners of his mouth turned up in a lopsided smile and John felt his skin tingle and heat pool in his groin.

'Are you indeed? Interesting.' His smile widened, but he made no move, remained distant. 'We'll see about that, won't we.' He set his glass down on the table and got up. To John's surprise he shrugged out of his jacket, loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

'Let's dance.'

 

 

*********

 

 

Sherlock Holmes danced with absolute abandon, forgetting himself, letting go, losing control. Swaying his hands and gyrating his hips, motions, graceful in him what would be obscene in others, very seductive and attracting the attention of those dancing around him. One young man in particular seemed entranced and danced closer to Sherlock, trying to win his attention. John glowered at him and mouthed _back off_. He relaxed when he realised that Sherlock was entirely oblivious to the effect he had on those around him.

John enjoyed the music as well and felt the tiredness sliding off him. The music pulsated through him, every beat hitting him like a punch. He danced closer to Sherlock, opening his arms wide, unconsciously shielding him. When their eyes met Sherlock smiled before he slowly closed his eyes again to lose himself anew in the rhythm of the electronic music. Accidentally their hands touched and their fingers slowly intertwined and to John it was as if electricity flowed between them. Sherlock held on to him for a moment and then he broke the contact. It was growing hotter and beads of sweat formed on Sherlock's brow. John itched to wipe them away.

 

 

*********

 

 

The cold water John splashed into his face was deliciously cool and soothing. He cupped his hands underneath the running tap and greedily drank water from them. Again he splashed water into his face and weaved his wet hands through his hair, making it stand up in spikes. Deeply inhaling he turned around and leaned against the marble sink.

The Gents turned out to be just as classy as the rest of the private club, a far cry from the toilets in the clubs John usually frequented, their cubicle walls smeared with graffiti, the air fetid and ringing with the noises of people coupling or, worse, of those unable to hold their liquor. John's eyes travelled over the two fancy leather chairs opposite the sinks, framed by a low table and a large mirror above it on the black wall. A well-dressed man was sitting in one of them, sleeping with his head lolling back. John smiled in sympathy as he himself was feeling the long day which lay behind him.

A sudden noise alerted him. He cocked his head and grinned. From the last cubicle the unmistakable sounds of two people engaged in a bit of frantic groping - or more - emerged. He pushed himself off the sink, walked to the door and quickly brushed past a group of chattering men entering the Gents, unwilling to be witness to other people's pleasure any longer than strictly necessary.

Weaving through the crowd John made his way towards the back of the club, back to the private booth where he had left Sherlock ten minutes ago. It took him a while to manoeuvre himself through the seething mass of dancing bodies on the dance floor, and when he finally stumbled through the curtains into the booth, he was panting.

Sherlock's head shot up and he fixed his eyes on John. He seemed to have trouble focusing, and shook his head in exasperation. His cheeks were flushed. In an almost angry motion he wiped his hand over his nose a few times.

He was not alone. A man was sitting next to him, very close, one hand on Sherlock's thigh as if staking his claim. The man lifted his head and stared at John who narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side. He remained pointedly silent. Noticing John's gaze Sherlock moved further away, causing the man's hand to drop to the sofa.

'Ah, John,' he said, his speech slightly slurred. 'James Moriarty, designer. James Moriarty, John Watson, my PA.'

'Cheers,' John said and shook the proffered hand. He felt the hairs on his neck stand on end when the ice cold smile, which never quite reached Moriarty's eyes, registered. Snatching his hand away he gave the man a quick once-over. Moriarty was just as immaculately dressed as Sherlock, from his suit down to his shoes, his short dark hair neatly trimmed, this style giving him the deceptive air of an over-eager student. John did not miss the steel in his eyes, which seemed to nervously flicker, and he instantly disliked this man immensely.

'Charmed, I'm sure,' Moriarty answered and placed a hand on Sherlock's back, his eyes never leaving John's face. 'I'll better go now. I'm sure your show will be an outstanding success tomorrow, dear.'

Sherlock squinted at him and nodded. John's cheeks reddened with the anger he felt rising in his chest. Moriarty got up, nodded curtly at John, and slinked out of the booth, the throng of dancers swallowing him almost immediately.

' _Jesus_!' John said and let out a breath. Without thinking he asked, 'Care to tell me what you consider him? Enemy or friend?'

Sherlock just snorted and John moved around the table to sit down next to him. Sherlock had closed his eyes and slumped back into the squishy backrest, his left leg jiggling nervously up and down. In the dim light John could make out a credit card on the table and next to it traces of a white powder. Involuntarily he balled his fists.

'Cocaine?'

'Splendidly deduced.'

'Why?'

'Why _what_?'

'Why do you take drugs? Cause you're an addict?'

'I'm not an addict, I'm a user. I use it to heighten my thought processes and to alleviate boredom.'

'Boredom?' John exploded. 'How can you be bored? For fuck's sake, Sherlock. You have bucket loads of work and your show tomorrow, how can you even think of doing drugs?'

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head to face John. He narrowed his eyes, 'What's it to you? Why do _you_ care?'

John bit his lips, thinking about an appropriate reply, trying very hard to remain calm.

'I don't want you to throw away what you have, that's all.'

'Nobody's throwing away anything.'

'Right - good.' Red hot anger settled in John's chest, quietly burning a tiny hole. He got up, 'Come on. I'll take you home.'

'Fine.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so much fun to find a place for all our beloved Sherlock characters within this verse! That said, expect much more to come ....  
> I hope you enjoyed this second chapter, and I really want to thank you for all your feedback so far. It's hugely appreciated! Please don't hesitate to continue telling me what you think :)  
> JJ xx


	3. Night Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three, in which Sherlock and John spend the night together ... in a way

Impatiently Sherlock batted John's hand away. 'I'm fine, don't fuss!'

'I know you are! No need to snap.' John continued steering Sherlock towards the exit, a steadying, but unrelenting hand on Sherlock's back. He stopped in his tracks when something occurred to him. 'Stay here a sec. I need to have a word with the bouncer.'

'Clearly,' Sherlock said. ' _Your_ job,' he added and pointed towards the exit, managing, even in his state, to prettily lace these two words with sarcasm. But, he stayed back obediently and leaned against the wall, ignoring inquisitive stares of passers-by.

The electronic music was only a vague memory here, nothing but a raw beat pulsing through him. The dull pain in his head thrummed in time with the bass, in an unpleasant and most irritating way.

Sherlock focused on standing as steadily as possible, his back against the wall and his feet planted firmly on the floor. He heard people's whispers - _Isn't that the designer? - You know ... something Holmes?_ \- _He's pissed isn't he?_ \- but he had no trouble ignoring them.

His eyes fell closed and he was careful to keep his breathing shallow. Despite what he had told John he was not fine. Beads of sweat were running down his spine and his heart was racing. Bile rose in his throat, forcing him to gulp air a few times. He doubled his efforts to breathe evenly. Avoiding any unnecessary movement he lifted his hands and pressed them against his sweaty forehead. If he had to stay here much longer he was going to embarrass himself by being sick.

A slight change of atmosphere told him that John had come back and he breathed a sigh of relief. 'John!'

'Bouncer says there's paps outside, but he called a cab to the back exit for us. I'll put the twenty quid I slipped him on expenses, shall I?'

'Obviously.' Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, an excess of motion he regretted at once.

 

The bouncer's words had been as good as gold and a cab was waiting at the back exit ten minutes later, taking them back to Islington without further delays. The twenty minute-ride seemed to calm Sherlock's stomach, even sober him, and when the cab stopped outside his flat he was considerably more alert. In his usual brusque manner Sherlock told John to pay the driver, and then got out, quickly striding ahead, leaving it to his PA to follow - or not.

More alert he seemed, that much was true, but the slight stagger in Sherlock's steps did not escape John, and it worried him. There was no way of knowing what else he was going to do - or take - if left alone tonight. Tomorrow's show was of the utmost importance, and even if Sherlock had acted as if he could not care less, John knew how hard he, they all, had worked, and he would be damned if he let Sherlock cock this up.

Stuffing his hands deep into his coat pockets John pushed through the entrance door and up the two flights of stairs and only caught up with Sherlock at the heavy wooden door to his flat, where he found him fumbling with the keys.

'For God's sakes!,' Sherlock cursed under his breath. He gave up and leaned his head against the doorframe. John brushed past him and snatched the key from his hand. Sherlock merely raised one eyebrow, but otherwise did not protest when John took over and deftly unlocked the door. The door swung open to reveal a dark and empty flat, no Mrs Hudson bustling through the showroom and no Chloe rolling her eyes in silent exasperation, all employees long gone at this hour of night.

They both stepped inside, Sherlock leaving it to John to close the main door with a soft thud. Without a backward glance Sherlock walked towards his private rooms. Through the ante-room, where he shed his coat and scarf, through the showroom, where he slipped out his shoes, and his studio, where he dropped his tie and jacket.

John followed Sherlock, picking up the clothes on the way. Both arms full of clothes he entered the vast living room which he recognised from his first night in Sherlock Holmes' employ. A smile danced across John's features when he remembered how that had played out.

Evidently, Sherlock had not stopped here either, but had continued through the living room, leaving the doors open. John heard yet another door being opened and after a short while the sound of running water. He decided that he would at least wait until Sherlock had finished his shower, making sure he was all right before he would take a cab home.

Carefully placing the bundle of expensive clothes on one of the sofas, John looked around. The two small lamps on the side tables he switched on plunged the large room into mellow light. It was as impressive as he remembered.

Shrugging out of his coat John flopped down onto the other sofa with a sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him. The entire flat was silent, apart from the sound of running water in the background, and the living room itself was pleasantly warm, its elegant atmosphere strangely soothing.

A marrow-deep tiredness overcame him, manifesting itself in a jaw-cracking yawn. He glanced at his watch - half past one - and with a groan he let his head fall back onto the soft backrest of the sofa.

 

 

*******

 

 

Hot water cascaded over Sherlock's body, his shoulder blades, his back and the planes of his flat stomach, down his long legs. Slowly he lifted his head, turned his face to the water and let it stream over his face. The cocaine high had long worn off, and not for the first time tonight he wondered if it had been worth it. If it had ever been.

_James Moriarty_

James had been the one to offer him the line, had slid next to him when John had gone ( _and where the hell had he been gone to for so long?)_ James had needled him, as he always did - _Sherlock, dear, where's your PA disappeared to? Your PA - Quite an ordinary chap, isn't he? It's all right, dear. I know, I know - but aren't ordinary people adorable? I think I need to get myself a live-in one as well_ \- and on, and on he had droned, in his soft, yet cutting voice, the pleasant Irish lilt so deceptive.

For a while Sherlock had managed to filter, the words merely washing over him, but James had been adamant, and John had still not come back. There _was_ something about James Sherlock could not ignore, something that attracted him against his better judgement. If asked, he would have a hard time explaining the appeal, maybe they were too similar, or maybe too different or maybe even two sides of the same coin.

James had leaned close and whispered in his ear - _But we know, Sherlock, don't we? That you'll get bored by him. Bored out of your brains. You're bored even now, aren't you? Luckily, I've got just the thing for you. Come on, let's share a line_ \- and with a smug smile and satisfaction in his near black eyes James had seen him relent once more. _Stupid_ \- Sherlock cursed under his breath - _Utterly and outrageously stupid!_

His time as an addict, if he had been that, lay long past him, and it was not a period in his life he was keen to recall. A time of aimlessly drifting through endless days filled with boredom and nothingness. It had been his designs, his art which had saved him, and Mycroft had helped and Lestrade, who knew every designer in London and beyond, had secured him his first job with one of the leading British designers.

Soon he had left and set up his own company, and his work and success had been enough to save him. He rarely took drugs these days and if he did, he wanted to believe it was as he had told John, to heighten his thought process or to alleviate bouts of boredom.

Sherlock turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He snatched a large towel from the heated towel rack, but quickly turned away, avoiding to glance at himself in the floor length mirror opposite. He knew he looked a mess and he felt it, too. Perfunctorily he towelled dry, angry with himself. _It's not worth it, not worth it all_ , he thought - again and again. Feeling bile rise in his throat once more, he let the towel fall to the marble floor and quickly turned around to retch into the sink.

He turned on the tap and splashed cold water into his face. _There_ , he thought, when he could not avoid his reflection in the mirror, _I'm a fucking mess_. Exasperated he snatched the hand towel from the rail and dabbed at his face. With a feeling akin to shame, he let his head hang.

 

 

*******

 

 

After he had brushed his teeth, he went to his room, naked and shivering in the cool air. Without much interest he rifled through his chest of drawers and pulled out a dark grey silk pyjama which he slipped into.

The flat was eerily quiet, no sound coming from the living room, nothing to tell him whether John was still waiting for him. Not that he expected him to, he certainly would not have waited if the situation had been reversed. But John had repeatedly proven that he was not like him and so he allowed himself some hope.

Barefooted Sherlock crossed the corridor and turned into the living room where he indeed found John, sleeping, his mouth partly open and gently snoring.

Calmness flooded Sherlock and the shame and disgust he had felt earlier seeped away. John was sleeping on one of the large sofas and Sherlock crossed the room and sat down next to him as closely as he dared. Drawing his legs up to his chest he leaned back and took the opportunity to observe his PA at leisure.

John's hair was softly glimmering - like moonlit silver - in the dim light, the blond highlights perfectly merging with the grey. Sleep had relaxed John's face, smoothed away the lines around his mouth and eyes. He appeared younger and more - accessible - yes - that was the right word because nothing was standing between them right now, neither distance nor restraint, which Sherlock felt oozing from his every pore when he was awake.

Yet, this distance and literally everything else concerning John was so very, very intriguing, had been from the very first moment. With regret Sherlock remembered that he had not sent a thank-you card to the temping agency yet, but made a vow to do so immediately after the show tomorrow.

His stomach lurched when he thought of _tomorrow_ , of the responsibility resting on his shoulders, the pressure to succeed. Silently he thanked John for being there with him to share some of the workload. In fact, in the past weeks John had become indispensable. In more than one way.

An urge to touch made Sherlock lift his hand to smooth away a few stray hairs from John's forehead, the fleeting touch eliciting a smile. Sherlock snatched his hand back, but John did not wake, just turned his face towards him, the shadow of the smile still very much there. Sherlock curled up beside John on the sofa, and with his head on the backrest and facing John, he continued to watch.

 

 

*******

 

 

'John.'

'Hmm?'

'John!'

Startled by the proximity of a low voice calling his name John blinked his eyes open and was astounded to see two ice blue orbits right in front of his eyes. He blinked, and blinked again, and the face belonging to those eyes slowly swam into focus. With a grunt he sat up.

'I fell asleep.'

'Obviously.'

John checked his watch - half past two - How long had Sherlock been next to him, watching him sleep?

'Got to go,' he said helplessly. His head was spinning and he was not quite awake yet.

'Must you?'

'Yes - ' John wiped his hands over his face, trying to completely wake up. 'Yes, I think I better should.'

Sherlock shuffled away from him and got up from the sofa. The fabric of his dark grey pyjama was shimmering in the light and very pleasant to look at. John blinked, trying to coax some sense into his tired brain, but all he came up with was what it would feel like if he touched it. Would the soft fabric be cool to the touch? Or warmed by the skin underneath? John's eyes lazily travelled over Sherlock's entire form, from the dishevelled curls over the lean body down to his bare feet. He appeared alert and fresh and John would not have believed that he had been drinking and doing _bloody_ drugs barely three hours ago. He cocked his head and licked his lips.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John - _Oh! The tiredness, yes, that's what it was, John is not entirely the master of his responses yet, and it makes him unguarded and much softer_ \- Sherlock wiggled his toes a bit, his feet were growing cold on the wooden floor. He had started to shiver in his thin pyjama and wrapped his arms around his upper body.

John caught a whiff of a fresh, lemony scent when Sherlock moved, and it made him aware that he himself was grubby and sweaty in comparison. Uneasy, he shifted on the sofa, knowing full well what the best thing to do would be, namely to make sure that Sherlock was fine - he seemed so - and then leave, but his body would not move. Not an inch. He blinked again.

'There's a spare room.'

'So?'

'It's late and tomorrow will be busy.'

'Yeah - right,' John nodded, this was entirely sensible.

'It's a nice ensuite room.'

'Ensuite? Right - okay,' John knew that he was not making much sense, he could not help it, he was knackered.

'Only if it's convenient.'

'Convenient?' John frowned, 'I'd say so. Yes - '

'Good!' Sherlock briskly moved away and with a curt shake of the head he beckoned John to follow.

'Bloody hell,' John muttered under his breath and when he had finally gathered enough strength he got up and followed Sherlock.

 

 

*******

 

 

Sherlock strained his ears, trying to discern John's whereabouts from the noises he made. After a lengthy shower he had sneaked from the spare room to the living room, presumably to pick up his coat which he had left on the sofa.

While John had been busy in the bathroom Sherlock had chosen a fresh t-shirt and a cotton pyjama bottom from his own and put it on his bed (John wasn't the silk pyjama type, he was certain of that), and a bottle of water onto his night table.

Now he was sitting on the edge of his own bed, his right leg nervously jiggling up and down, the door of his room ajar. The creaking of the bedsprings told him that John was crawling under the covers. A few grunts and a bit of tossing and turning and then it was quiet.

For good measure Sherlock gave it another fifteen minutes. Avoiding any sound in the corridor he tiptoed over to John's room. With the utmost care he opened the door and slipped inside.

 

 

*******

 

 

John woke with a start, unknown sounds piercing his consciousness. Panting, he sat up, blinking, trying to find his bearings. Enough light was falling through the large windows to help him make out the contours of the room he found himself in and to allow him to remember where he was. Gradually his heart calmed down and stopped racing.

It was quiet in the bedroom, very quiet, but it was the wrong kind of quiet as if someone was holding their breath not to be noticed - he was not alone.

'Sherlock?'

'Hm?'

'What are you doing in my room?'

'I - I think - I fell asleep,' Sherlock cleared his throat, grateful for the darkness surrounding them. 'Of course, I will - go now.' He made to get up, but John's hand shot out to stop him, 'No!'

'No?'

'I don't mind.'

'You don't?' Sherlock shifted so that he faced John. The darkness swallowed his features, but John could make out the rough outline of his face and body, curled up as he was in the chair next to his bed. His voice appeared much closer when he spoke again. 'After all, it is rather unusual, to say the least. Me, sleeping next to you.'

'Well, you're not _in_ my bed.'

'I concede it,' Sherlock sounded amused and John felt a flush warming his cheeks.

'No reason to be embarrassed then, is there?'

'Clearly.'

They were silent.

'Are you comfortable?'

'Mildly.'

John chuckled, and then silence descended between them again. A comfortable, downy silence, uniting, not dividing, and it emboldened John.

'Why did you take it?'

Sherlock did not answer and John winced, dreading he had been too blunt.

'Tonight, the coke, I mean - why?'

'I could tell you that James Moriarty made me, that he is incredibly hard to resist, a charming serpent, but that would be merely half the truth.'

John's fists clenched when he heard Sherlock praising this ice cold bastard. He had only just met him and he knew that he was not to be trusted at all. John waited for Sherlock to go on, the soft rustling of his clothes as he was changing position the only sound in the room.

'When I was younger, in my early twenties, I experimented with drugs, like many young people do. The thing is I was never like _many young people_ , I was never part of _them_ and took this to a level way beyond mere experimentation. I don't want to bore you with details, but I was struggling to find direction in life, I was struggling with events in my past, and if it had not been for some people who helped me, I don't know ...'

John remained silent, unsure how to react to this confession, but he was touched by the trust Sherlock put in him by telling him.

'Work is my drug now,' Sherlock added after a while.

'Then why? We're up to our eyebrows in work for the show, why tonight?'

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, a gesture John could only vaguely make out in the dim light. Another movement, the stretching of his legs, the placing of his bare feet on top of John's duvet, close, but not quite touching. Still, John was acutely aware of the dull weight and the source of heat close to him. He licked his lips, careful not to move away.

'I - I can't explain, not now anyway.'

'Right - Okay.'

Once more silence settled between them and John closed his eyes.

'What about you?' Sherlock eventually asked, his voice low, inviting John to confide in him.

'Me?' John arched his brows. 'Drugs you mean?'

'Drugs - whatever - make it life-changing moments, love, sex...'

Sherlock lifted his feet off the duvet and John experienced a sense of loss. A second later ice cold feet slipped underneath the duvet, searching the heat of John's bare skin. John winced when the icy toes found his shin and curled around his calf. His skin tingled and for a split second the sound of blood whooshing in his ears was drowning out every other noise. Nervously he cleared his throat - a low chuckle was Sherlock's reply.

'You don't mind, do you?'

'No - no. Not at all.' But he was as nervous as a fifteen-year old about to get laid for the first time.

'So?' Sherlock's toes nudged him and John batted at his legs with his hand.

'You're an impatient git, you know that?'

'It's one of my outstanding qualities.'

John snorted, and relaxed a bit.

'Well, I don't do drugs - never have. I drink, occasionally, but never in excess. I guess, having a boozing sister struggling with addiction kind of kills the joy of drinking.'

'Hm.'

'Then what ... life-changing moments? A few, but I'd say getting shot during my military deployment takes the first place.'

'Afghanistan or Iraq?'

'What?'

'Still visible tan lines on your neck and wrists, so exposure to sun, but not sunbathing. Military career, deployment. Afghanistan or Iraq?'

'Afghanistan.'

'Left shoulder.'

'How can you possibly know?'

'Dressing you the first day. Caught a glimpse of you in the mirror. Surely, you can't have forgotten that.'

While talking Sherlock had begun stretching his toes against John's skin, a myriad of gentle caresses, like small electric jolts, running up his leg and pooling in his groin. He closed his eyes, thanking the night for the merciful cover it provided. Shifting on the mattress, he let his legs fall open.

'And?'

He opened his eyes and tried to concentrate on Sherlock's words. 'What was it you wanted to know?'

'As I recall I have added two more points of interest.'

John's thoughts were racing in his head, his sense wrestling with his desire, both arguing loudly what on earth they were doing, in the middle of the night, and where they would go from here. In a clear moment John realised how cleverly Sherlock had deflected him from his own - serious - problem, the one that had made John stay in his flat in the first place.

'I am unattached,' he finally said.

'So I gathered,' Sherlock smugly said. 'But you haven't always been and - you are clearly familiar with both sexes.' His toes gently danced up and down John's calf, down and up again, briefly stopping on his knee before boldly travelling further up. John sharply drew in a breath and Sherlock stopped mid-thigh.

'Obviously, you are not averse to my advances. You rejected me the first time, but you are more than intrigued now if your rapid breathing and increased pulse is anything to go by.' Slowly he let his toes wander back down John's leg.

'You're open to the fairer sex as well, all your interactions with the female models, the seamstresses and even little Hooper are proof of that. I'd say you are fairly experienced, after all, you're approaching forty, any healthy male this age should statistically have had various serious relationships, and of course being in the army means living in a kind of cosmos of its own, allowing people to grow very intimate with each other very quickly. In my experience, danger acts as a very powerful aphrodisiac. I conclude, there must have been a string of lovers.' He drew a breath, 'Am I right?'

'That - was quite brilliant,' John said, equally fascinated and astonished.

'Clearly. But am I right?'

'You are. Last relationship was a man, I had two longer relationships with women, various flings, one-night stands, you know what it's like.' John was aware that he was sharing intimacies with an ease quite unlike him. He could not help it, did not know if he would regret it, but he leaned into the touch, relishing the gentle caress, longing to touch as well, to feel warm soft skin, to kiss. 'What about you, Sherlock? A string of past lovers, flings, affairs? Famous models, dishy photographers? And what's the deal with Moriarty? You seemed quite taken with him...'

Sherlock snatched his foot away - John counted the seconds - one, two, three - and everything was gone. 'I'll better let you sleep now.'

Before John could react, Sherlock had pushed the chair back, the legs loudly scraping over the wooden floor and left the bedroom. John sat up, staring after him, and wondered what _the bloody hell_ had gone wrong just now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a horrendous week at work, coupled with a heavy cold, and I feel I could have done a bit more editing on this chapter :( Ah well ... I sincerely hope you liked it a bit anyway, and I want to thank you so much for all your feedback, the kudos, comments, reviews, alerts, my lovelies.  
> JJ xx


	4. The Show(down) I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The after-show-party - drinking, flirting and more

The crowd erupted in loud cheers and whoops, the clapping rising to a crescendo, collecting in the high dome of the Victorian Glasshouse, only to rain down on the enthusiastic crowd again, the buzz and electricity cresting when Sherlock stepped into the spotlight and walked along the catwalk to receive his well-deserved applause.

John watched from his vantage point behind the curtain. He was almost breathless, panting, his heart beating wildly after the completion of what had been an adrenalin-drenched day. Sweat was slowly trickling down his back and he wiped his hand repeatedly over his brow.

He was fascinated by the crowd's response and could not take his eyes off Sherlock who looked cool and composed, the black suit hugging his lean figure, his curls stylishly dishevelled by one of the hair artists. They gleamed blueish-black in the bright spot light which the director of the show was focusing on Sherlock, following his progress along the narrow and slightly curving catwalk right until the end where he firmly planted his feet and stood still, listening to the crowd going wild, only to give the most perfunctory of nods of acknowledgment. The applause and cheers were swelling once more, and when Sherlock turned and walked back towards John, it was a perfect opportunity to read his face.

There was elation and joy next to pride and concentration, his cheeks glowing and his eyes sparkling. But John also noticed the deep furrow between his brows, a sign of tension, and his fingers itched to smooth it away.

Sherlock walked straight towards him, entirely focused on him, it seemed, and for a moment John was intensely hoping for a touch, only to have this hope crash when Sherlock stopped, very close to him, but not touching. Letting out a breath of relief, he lowered his eyes and when he lifted them again, he allowed John to see his tiredness and exhaustion, 'Thank God, it's over.'

Then he turned away and was soon engulfed by people eager to congratulate him. Mrs Hudson was there, pecking him on the cheek and receiving a warm hug in return, Greg Lestrade, who had photographed the show, was pushing towards him and then slapped him on the back, a wide grin on his face.

John knew that most of the models were itching to leave quickly, but some took a moment to sashay over and peck Sherlock on the cheek, saying goodbye those who were hastening on to the next show, others lingering, tired, in their own clothes already, but still in full make-up and hair. Molly had told him that Sherlock Holmes was known for great after-show parties and John assumed that's what they were hoping for tonight.

Sherlock lifted his arms in an attempt to quieten the din backstage. Nothing could be done about the noise coming from the spectators leaving the glasshouse, chairs scraping across the stone floor, journalists and customers chattering excitedly among themselves.

More and more people flooded backstage, and John glimpsed Irene Adler, the Vogue editor. The interview this morning had been interesting, John remembered with a smirk, what with her constantly flirting with Sherlock who had remained professionally distant. Her pretty assistant, who had rolled her eyes at John behind her employer's back, was there, too.

John craned his neck, and when he caught Greg Lestrade's eye, he waved, receiving an enthusiastic thumbs-up from the photographer. Molly was next to him, cheerfully waving and miming lifting a drink at John, who nodded and smiled.

Sherlock had climbed onto a chair by now and John saw it as his duty as his PA to quieten the crowd, so he waved his arms and shushed, helped by a few people standing close. Quite uncharacteristically Sherlock waited patiently until the excited chatter had died down.

'Success!' Sherlock called, punching the air, and everybody erupted into cheers. 'Hard work, long nights, high hopes, always tinged with the fear of impending disaster - heartbreak, anger, impatience and fury. Obviously, some of you might argue that I overreacted once or twice and I fear some of you lovely ladies will never speak to me again...' snorts and giggles. 'In short, months and months of hard work, and it fucking paid off!' Cheers and long applause. 'Evidently, I need to thank you all for your patience, your support and your unwavering commitment. But there are a few special people who deserve all the praise in the world - Martha, my goddess of the needles,' he smiled at Mrs Hudson who blushed and thanked for the loud cheers. 'Gavin! Your shots are a work of art,' more loud cheers, and Sherlock's wink. 'Do try to work on your time management, though.' A few laughs. 'Thanks to all the seamstresses, the models, the make-up and hair artists, the caterers and everybody who was part of this evening. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!'

Crossing his arms on his chest in a humble gesture he bowed to the loud applause of his employees and friends.

John was surprised by this little speech which seemed unlike anything he would have expected from Sherlock Holmes. Rudeness, arrogance, followed by a quick thank you, yes - but this had been so - _normal_. He looked around, expecting disbelief, sneers or contradiction, but he only saw happy and glowing faces. Mrs Hudson looked a bit teary and quite stunning in black, and she was beaming with pride, humbly accepting the congratulations of those standing close to her. Lestrade, in the corner, was chatting away with Ms Adler who looked professionally bored and kept glancing in Sherlock's direction.

A tall, gangly man, immaculate in a three-piece suit was weaving through the crowd, taking great care not to touch or to be touched. Eventually he stopped, standing close to Sherlock, a small, satisfied smile on his face. John had never seen him before and he wondered who he was. The man seemed entirely at ease and nobody took any notice of him, so he must be known to at least some people here, but he certainly was not to John.

Absorbed in his thoughts, John had missed Sherlock climbing down from the chair, and had also missed that he was now standing right behind him, his chest almost touching his back. Eventually John became aware and turned around to face him.

'Thank you, John,' Sherlock softly said, his eyes fixed on him, intense and bright. 'I could not have done it without you.'

Surprised, John smiled. 'Cheers,' he said and answered the curt nod Sherlock offered him. John was happy about this acknowledgment, and even though it did not make up for Sherlock's behaviour last night, it was a little something, in tune with his surprisingly _normal_ compartment tonight.

They had not had the chance to talk over what had transpired in the guest room, and the taste of it was still lingering in John's mouth like the bouquet of a particularly fine wine with a slightly unpleasant aftertaste. But John was willing to wait. It would be worth it, he knew.

Sherlock stepped even closer and placed his hand on John's chest, his fingers slowly slipping inside the jacket and resting over John's heart, splaying and gently pressing. John's breath hitched, excited by the thought that Sherlock must feel the steady _du-dumm, du-dumm, du-dumm_ of his heart through the thin fabric of the shirt. Sherlock opened his mouth, but then shook his head.

'Sherlock?'

'Later, John - later,' he softly said and looked up, over John's shoulder, his hand remaining where it was, doubtlessly acutely aware of the faster and faster heartbeat underneath his fingers.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the hordes of people, crowding amidst the backstage chaos of clothes racks, chairs, make-up cases, bags and the trestle tables full of catering. He let his fingers slowly glide over John's chest and then his hand fell to his side, the gentle touch leaving John's skin tingling. John gasped at the loss of connection and instinctively moved closer to Sherlock, who did not back away.

Sherlock pushed back some unruly curls from his forehead and then loudly addressed employees, friends and guests once more.

'Champagne's on me!'

 

 

*******

 

 

'For God's sakes, look at those leeches,' Sherlock peered over the rim of his half-filled champagne glass, taking a tiny sip before placing it on a small table, next to an overflowing ashtray. 'Gorging themselves on free food and booze.'

'Yes,' Mycroft drawled. 'Despicable, isn't it.'

'Quite,' Sherlock smirked and turned to look at his brother. 'I notice you're refraining. Putting on weight again?'

'Losing it, in fact,' Mycroft smiled his wintry smile, sipping on his champagne, the corners of his mouth turning down in distaste.

'Not to your taste?' Sherlock offered. 'I'm crushed.'

'I'll live,' Mycroft rid himself of his glass, then focused on Sherlock. 'Well done, little brother. It was a splendid show, excellently executed, tasteful and innovative.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft, taking in his face, looking for pretence or malice, but only found benevolent openness. 'Thank you, I guess.'

'How's your PA - _John Watson_ , was it?'

'Fine.'

'Care to elaborate?'

'I don't see why I should.'

'Oh? Like that, is it?' Mycroft rocked on his heels, clasping his hands behind his back.

'What?'

'Nothing,' Mycroft let his gaze travel through the dimly-lit room. It was getting rowdy and loud, far too boisterous for his liking. 'Just be careful, will you?'

'Obviously,' Sherlock briefly touched Mycroft's arm, eliciting a minute lifting of Mycroft's immaculate eyebrows, and then pushed himself off the wall. With both hands stuffed into his trouser pockets he weaved through the crowd in search of John. He spotted him across the room, talking to Molly, his hands flying and his face animated and bright.

Sherlock stopped, in need a moment to collect himself, the unfortunate turn of events of last night flitting through his brain. His cheeks flushed with a feeling very close to shame, and he knew that he had to explain his demeanour - and so much more. He took a deep breath, ready to walk over to John and claim him when a hand landed on his shoulder.

'There you are, my dear. I have been looking for you for ages.'

 

 

*******

 

 

John looked up and saw Sherlock leaving the room. It did not worry him, not anymore. He knew he was fine, exhausted, probably, and in need of some space. Surely he was merely trying to find some quiet.

He also knew that they would talk, that they would find time for each other. If not here, then somewhere else. If not tonight, then tomorrow. A warm feeling settled in his chest, kindled by the pride of what they had accomplished in the past weeks, by the contentment he was feeling whenever he was around Sherlock, by the fact that he was unpredictable and exciting, gorgeous and sexy. He dipped his chin to hide his smile in his glass, unwilling to share his feelings with a bunch of virtual strangers.

Composed once more, his eyes scanned the room with the people chatting and drinking. In the corner someone was setting up some speakers and a laptop, the dancing was about to begin. John excused himself, planting a little kiss on Molly's cheek who blushed furiously, and then set off to follow Sherlock outside for a breath of air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this shorter chapter, but I did not have much time to write, so I decided to give you this at least - and leave you with a little cliffhanger :)  
> Thank you all so much for reading and all your lovely feedback. Please keep it up - knowing that people actually enjoy my writing is by far the biggest motivation of all!  
> JJ xx


	5. The Show(down) II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two - enjoy reading!

The cool night breeze felt like bliss after the warm and stuffy air in the glasshouse. John dipped his head back, and with closed eyes he took a deep breath. Light wind gently danced over him, like cool fingers caressing his face and carding through his hair. A shiver ran down his spine and he opened his eyes.

It was after ten and the night was dark, but this close to the exit enough light was falling through the glass walls for John to see. A couple was standing behind a potted boxtree, drunkenly kissing and giggling. Having a good time, John thought, feeling a gentle tug of longing.

A bit further along a group of men was huddling close, smoking and softly talking. John recognised some of the show's technicians and greeted them as he walked past.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

He had neither been among the men smoking nor was he sitting on one of the stone benches scattered around the small paved court. John continued down the path which led away from the glasshouse and into the park.

The beauty of it was astonishing even at night. When they had looked for suitable venues for Sherlock's show weeks ago, the glasshouse and the surrounding park had stood out. Sherlock had realised its fairytale quality would provide a striking contrast to his clean and modern designs, and tonight's success had proven him right. It had been a spectacular sight when the guests had arrived, welcomed by hundreds of small lanterns lighting the paths and the strings of fairy lights in the large trees, plunging the garden into magical light. The set designer had done a wonderful job indeed.

Right now, John could think of more enticing places to be, though, and he was not too keen to stroll through the garden alone. It was cold, he was in his shirt only, he had had two glasses of wine and he was growing tired. He sighed, stuffing his hands into his trouser pocket searching for some warmth - What he _really_ wanted was being with Sherlock.

The lanterns shed some light, but treading was treacherous, and turning a corner, John stumbled over a stone and almost fell. 'For fuck's sake ...' he cursed and looked up, his eyes widening. 'Sorry,' he mumbled. He beat a hasty retreat, leaving alone the two people who quite clearly had come here for privacy.

John continued further down the path, less and less lanterns lighting his way, and his heart sank with every foot he walked. All he found was more and more profound darkness, but no Sherlock. He stopped and peered at the velvety black surrounding him, unsure what to do.

_Where are you?_

 

 

*******

 

 

Irene Adler forced a smile onto her face.

_God, now he is boring me to death with technicalities! Will this never end? And where is Janine? She is never close when I need her!_

This evening turned out to be a disaster and in her anger, Irene made a mental note to make it Janine's last job to find her a new PA. She was sick and tired of her assistant's antics.

'You want this lens to enhance natural shadows, the gorgeous hollows and angles,' Greg Lestrade was saying, when she made the mistake to focus on him, his face flushed with drink and enthusiasm. She immediately regretted having succumbed to politeness and tuned out again, a pretty smile masking her indifference.

Taking a sip of champagne she unobtrusively let her eyes wander past Lestrade and through the room, but she could not see him. The smile on her face wilted and died and for a second she fought to keep her temper in check. But giving in and letting the anger bloom inside her chest felt so much better.

_How dare he!_

Yes, he had agreed to an interview this morning, but he had been distant and professional - All business and no fun. The rest of the day he had ignored her, had treated her like a nobody, had ignored all her texts, had not even shown a modicum of manners to thank her for the tasteful card she had Janine sent.

To add insult to injury he had declined her invitation to dinner at the _The Savoy_ yesterday. A private booth had been reserved for them, and she had been prepared to relate all the latest fashion gossip. But no! He had had the nerve to go partying with his appallingly plain PA instead, as she had been told. A flush crept up her neck, hot and irritating. How she would love to wipe that smug smile off John Watson's face - or to use one of her whips on him - well, she would rather use them on Sherlock, to be honest, but there was no denying that this PA needed some punishment. Since his arrival Sherlock had been distant, no, _unavailable_ for her, no banter, no titillating mind games, no subtle insults and teasing, the hint of some light hearted fun to be had, no strings attached, of course - Instead, plain indifference! That was all she had been offered. Outrageous, this was!

'Are you all right?' Lestrade looked inquisitively at Irene Adler, who had gone awfully quiet and seemed distinctly unwell. The flush creeping up her pale neck, mottling her skin, was a rather unbecoming contrast to her artfully applied make up.

Irene flashed him a smile, and the mask she usually wore as a mark of her profession slipped back on, 'Splendid, Greg! Never been better, in fact!'

'Oh good!'

'Be a darling, and get me another drink, will you? Whisky sour, thanks,' and with a pat on his arm she dismissed him.

 

 

*******

 

 

John felt the cold creeping into his bones, making him shiver, and the humid air was no longer friendly and crisp, but cutting. Yearning seeped in his heart - God, he missed him! Missed him so much, even though they had been apart for barely half an hour. He dipped his chin, smiling, contemplating the admittedly rather surprising feeling, enjoying it, warm and pleasant as it was.

 _Where are you?_ _Where?_

Reluctant to give up so easily, he turned on his heels, scanning the dark once more, straining his ears, but he could make out no sound which could possibly lead him to Sherlock.

 _Nothing_ \- _nothing_!

He took a deep breath, making an effort to calm down. Maybe he had gone back inside? Maybe he was impatiently waiting for him, somewhere in the background, watching others noisily enjoying themselves, not participating himself, but leaning against the wall, his left leg nervously jiggling up and down. John imagined a disarming lopsided smile lighting up Sherlock's face when he saw him - and here he was, wasting time, trundling through the darkness like a grumpy and increasingly cold hedgehog.

Quickly John turned and walked back towards the glasshouse, hugging himself to coax some warmth back into his body. Retracing his steps he had to pass the couple in the dark recess again, and found them still absorbed with each other, their intimacy tugging at his heart. Although he had no intention to pry, he lifted his head when he passed them and recognised one of the male models and Ms Adler's pretty assistant, Janine.

Grinning, he hurried on. The closer he came to the glasshouse, the noisier it became, loud dance music, dominated by a heavy and raw beat, mixing with the excited chatter of people standing outside.

John's heart sank when he saw that Sherlock was not among them. No need to worry, he told himself, surely Sherlock had gone back inside, waiting for him with a smug smile on his face and a glass of champagne in his hand.

 

 

*******

 

 

'I think it's time to gracefully accept your defeat. Don't be a sore loser.' Sherlock was running out of patience, they had been here before, they were arguing in circles.

'A sore _loser_? Darling, what are you talking about?' James Moriarty opened his arms wide in a gesture of untainted innocence. 'Last time I checked this wasn't a contest - you and me.'

Sherlock sighed, 'Obviously.' For the lack of anything better to do Sherlock patted his pockets, but of course there were no cigarettes, they would add a nasty bulge to the perfect lines of his suit and besides, he had quit some time ago. But right now he badly craved some nicotine.

'In need of a hit, dear?'

Sherlock arched his brows, unwilling to admit any form of weakness to James. 'No.'

'Sure?'

A dull pain started throbbing behind Sherlock's eyes, the long day making itself felt, tiredness enveloping him. This was no use, was not what he wanted. Besides, he was shivering in his thin suit jacket, the cold nipping at his skin. The absurdity of the situation almost made him laugh - What was he doing here anyway? With James Moriarty? John was waiting for him, and he had no intention of wasting any more time.

He turned, but a hand clamped around his arm, holding him back.

'Come on, stay a while, there's no need to rush, is there?' James' voice was a gently needling singsong. Sherlock glanced at the hand around his biceps and scoffed. James let go. 'You know, he found some distraction - in there. Saw him flirting with that little mousy one. Pretty, but boring - Ah - Who? Who was it? - It's on the tip of my tongue, on the tip of my tongue' he obscenely stuck his tongue out, licking his lips. 'You know - Lestrade's assistant.'

'Molly Hooper?'

'That's the one! Quite smitten he seemed ...' Moving closer again James whispered. 'Believe me, dear, there really is _no_ rush.'

Sherlock hesitated, insecurity taunting him. He bit his lower lip, lifting his head, turning to the noise coming from the glasshouse and back, wavering. But then he made up his mind.

'Lovely and quite unnecessary of you to care, but I honestly need to go.'

'I would advise against it - and,' James dropped his voice and cocked his head. 'You'd actually be breaking my heart.'

Sherlock huffed and walked away, one, two, three feet.

'Not staying? Not even if I offer you this?' James lifted his hand, a small plastic sachet dangling between his index finger and thumb.

Sherlock stopped, something had made him, and he slowly turned around, narrowing his eyes.

'Seriously?'

'No?'

'No! I told you I don't want any. We've been standing here in the cold for far too long already. Do keep up, you know how much I hate to repeat myself.' He walked back to him and lowered his voice, 'You have no right to be here.'

'Well - That's quite a different tune all of a sudden!'

'Is it? I don't think so.'

'What happened? I don't understand, I honestly don't. What about us? Huh? - What about yesterday? What's so different today?'

'I think I have made myself quite clear - I don't _want_ you,' Sherlock hissed. 'I don't owe you an explanation. So fuck _off_!'

'Oh? Really? Just like that, dear?'

'Yes! Just like that.'

James grabbed both of Sherlock's arms. 'It's not that easy! I know what you are like and I don't hesitate to spill the beans.'

'What are you going to do? Go running to _Daddy_?' Sherlock spat, struggling with him, but found he was incapable to wrest himself free. James was smaller than him, but he was strong. 'Let go!'

'You can't do that to me. I won't leave you alone, I swear. It's always you and me, and I'll ...'

A hard punch knocked the breath out of him and he stumbled sideways and onto his knees, releasing Sherlock. He doubled over, trying to breathe, holding on to his side. Huffing a breath he looked up into the face of a very enraged John Watson.  
'Keep your hands off him, you bastard!' John snarled. His vision had gone red, and his breath was coming in irregular puffs. He could feel adrenalin racing through his veins and his heart beating in his throat. Ready to punch again he lifted his fist, he _wanted_ a fight.

'Coming to the rescue?' James mocked him, his voice shrill. 'A proper knight in shining armour, isn't he, Sherlock?'

Sherlock rubbed his arms and stared at John, his skin tingling pleasantly. John looked glorious, in his white shirt and his hair dishevelled, his breathing coming hard and fast, his chest heaving with every breath he took. It was more than obvious that John was ready to hit James again should he make the tiniest move and Sherlock's heart leaped.

'I'm quite all right, John,' he said softly, completely ignoring James who was still crouching on the cold ground, theatrically wincing with pain. He enveloped John's clenched fist in his hand and dragged him away, 'Let's go back inside.'

'What?' James whined. 'You can't just leave me here! I - I - Sherlock? Sherlock, please.'

John took a step towards him and leaned down. 'Stay away from him! Do you hear me?' His voice was low, threatening, yet superficially friendly. 'I swear to God, I won't hold back next time!'

All through this they had not let go and when John turned back he lifted Sherlock's hand and brushed his lips over his knuckles, a gesture as much a promise as it was a statement.

James Moriarty sat back on his heels, dumbfounded, for once unable to react, reduced to staring.

 

 

*******

 

 

The music changed to something slow and Sherlock lifted his hand from where it had rested on John's thigh. He got up and stood before him, extending his hand, asking for the pleasure of the dance with nothing more than a twinkle in his eyes. John answered just as eloquently with a curt nod and stepped into Sherlock's embrace.

The song was slow and sensual and John let his head sink against Sherlock's chest, closing his eyes, swaying gently with him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's sturdy and reassuring body, unprecedented feelings filling him entirely, washing over him, making his skin tingle from head to toe, and it was such a cliché that it almost made him laugh. Seeking a counterpoint he bit his lip until it hurt.

He buried his face in John's hair, the scents of the day clinging to the soft strands, the hectic morning and the successful night, the light and the dark, the bitterness as well as the sweetness and it was everything.

 _John_ was everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, it was such fun to write BAMF John coming to the rescue of his damsel in distress :) ... More to come!  
> Thank you all for your fantastic and very supportive feedback, you really, really make my day!  
> JJ xx


	6. Harassing Fire

Their eyes met and the world stood still.

It was as if a film froze mid-scene and all the people dancing around them became blurry shades amid the music clumsily stuttering to a halt. John tilted his head and a smile slowly spread over his face, warm and heartfelt, entirely transforming him. A web of laughter lines crinkled the skin around his eyes, the tip of his tongue pressed against his teeth before he opened his mouth wider and bit his lips.

Sherlock felt dizzy, his head spinning with fatigue and happiness. Grounding himself he placed both hands on John's hips and drew him close.

'Let's go home,' he whispered.

 

 

*******

 

 

It was very late already when their cab arrived, and once settled in the comfortable seats, Sherlock felt that he had no strength left in him and immediately fell asleep, today's stress and the hard work of the past weeks taking their due toll. John was loath to wake him and told the cabbie to keep driving to make Sherlock's slumber last a while - _By God, he needs it_. John wrapped his arms around him and gathered him close, Sherlock's head coming to rest on John's shoulder.

London whooshed past outside, their cab cruising through empty streets. The pavements were just as deserted, safe for the odd night crawler and those unlucky few who had to leave for work in the early hours.

The darkness flying past was hypnotic and John leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The soft humming of the car and Sherlock's pleasant weight against his chest made him drowsy and he was drifting off to sleep, when the cabbie startled him back to consciousness with a soft rap of his knuckles against the partition.

'Sorry, mate - I'd love to drive you and your boyfriend to Gretna Green and back, but my agency radioed - there's another fare waiting for me. So, here we are - home for you two.'

John wiped his hand over his mouth and blinked - the word _boyfriend_ echoing in his skull - 'Right - okay.' He lifted his index finger to indicate to the cabbie to have a tad more patience.

'Sherlock,' he whispered, gently shaking him awake. 'Sherlock, you're home.'

'Hmm?'

'Time to wake up.'

Sherlock snuggled closer to John, nuzzling his neck, hot breath ghosting over John's skin. 'No _pe_.'

'Sherlock! Come on.'

All of a sudden Sherlock sat up, startled. 'Where are we?'

'In the cab.'

'Still?' Sherlock frowned and peered through the windows and then back at John, his eyebrows raised inquisitively. 'We're stationary.'

'Splendidly deduced,' John could not help but use one of Sherlock's trademark quotes.

'Why?'

'We're - _you're_ home.'

'Oh! - Well ... What are you waiting for, John. Pay the cabbie!'

Admirably elegant for a man just woken from deathlike slumber Sherlock climbed out of the cab and waited on the pavement until John had paid, adding a generous tip.

 

 

*******

 

 

A few hours later John woke with an unbecoming snort, bright daylight tugging at his consciousness and a pleasant weight resting on his chest. He gulped, trying to coax some moisture onto his parched throat. Black curls were fanned out on his white shirt, a startlingly beautiful contrast, a fact which even his tired brain was ready to concede.

He fractionally lifted his head and recognised Sherlock's living room, daylight streaming through the large windows, dust motes dancing merrily in the sunlight. They were alone and stretched out comfortably on one of the large sofas.

Memories of them climbing the stairs to Sherlock's flat, of walking through the empty rooms - arm in arm, not talking - and ending in the living room, floated across his tired brain. Both of them had been too knackered to move any further, too tired to talk or to clarify, instead they had fallen asleep in each other's arms on the sofa almost immediately.

The doorbell rang, startlingly loud in the almost absolute silence, and then it was broken once more by doors clapping somewhere in the flat. John heard people talking, probably Chloe welcoming the newcomer, and he craned his head to read his watch.

Half past ten - _Half past ten_ _!_

He tried to sit up, but found that he could not as he was pinned down by the weight of a very warm Sherlock.

'Don't fret,' he said. 'I'm the boss - I allow you to be late.'

John chuckled, 'Ta - that's generous of you.'

There was a knock on the living room door, and Sherlock scoffed.

'What now!' he growled, and then louder, after a second, more insistent, knock. 'Come _in_!'

He did not change his position, remained where he was, comfortably draped over John who closed his eyes on the slightly embarrassing situation. He heard the door open and close, heard firm footsteps approaching.

'Sherlock,' a cool and composed voice said. 'Mr Watson.'

John was polite enough to open his eyes in order to return the greeting and was surprised to find the man he had seen for the first time at the after-show-party yesterday. He looked refreshed and immaculate in an elegant grey three-piece suit with slightly darker pinstripes. It wasn't one of Sherlock's stylish designs, as the man clearly seemed to favour the attire of a conservative British gentleman, complete with a sleek umbrella dangling from his wrist.

'Mycroft,' Sherlock said, still not lifting his head from John's chest. 'What extraordinary circumstance do we owe your early visit.'

Mycroft Holmes rolled his eyes, a gesture oddly familiar to John, and one by one the puzzle pieces fell into place. The fact that everybody around Sherlock seemed to know this man, the fact that he was invited to Sherlock's living room - and was obviously familiar with it - the banter he had witnessed yesterday as well as the intimacy between them just now.

'Are you two...?' he said, waving a hand between Sherlock and his guest.

'Yes, John. We are. Mycroft,' Sherlock lifted a hand and pointed down to the man underneath him. 'This is my PA John Watson. John Watson, this is my older brother, Mycroft Holmes.'

'Splendid!' Mycroft smiled a little, as was expected. He knew how to fulfil society's expectations to pass as human among other humans. 'Now that we are done with the niceties, do get up, little brother. There's urgent business we need to attend to.'

'What business? I have no business today - I have a day off. The show's over and it was a success.'

'On the contrary. It is a disaster!'

'What?' Sherlock sat up abruptly. 'What did you say?'

 

 

*******

 

 

'I don't understand, Mycroft. It's nothing more than a few unfriendly comments underneath a good review of the show.' Sherlock turned and put down a large plate he had been holding onto the huge kitchen table. It was laden with buttery croissants and he deftly broke off the corner of one and popped it in his mouth. 'I know you're prone to exaggerations, but to call this a disaster is a bit much even for your standards.'

John took a sip of his milky tea - Assam, his favourite - wincing when the scalding liquid hit his tongue. Setting down the mug onto the table, he reached out and snatched one delicious looking pastry from the plate. Crumbs scattered across the scrubbed oak table which took centre stage in Sherlock's kitchen, a striking contrast to the sleek and functional units in white and stainless steel.

Biting into the croissant more crumbs fluttered onto his t-shirt and he brushed them off. With his mouth full he said, 'I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. All the people _I_ talked to were enthusiastic about the show.'

Sherlock nodded his assent, but hunger made John tune out then and there, and he concentrated entirely on his croissant which was outstandingly delicious. John had not eaten since yesterday evening, he was ravenous. It was almost noon, too late for breakfast really, but sitting in this bright and cosy room with two large bay windows, was very relaxing, despite Mycroft's morose mood and the Holmes brothers bickering.

John sighed with contentment, letting his thoughts swirl leisurely through his head - replaying his favourite moments from yesterday, tonight, now. Mycroft's raised voice startled him and he swallowed. Trying hard to focus again he looked at Sherlock who had sat down next to him, radiating tiredness and irritation expressed by running his hand repeatedly through his still damp curls. The white silky V-neck he had slipped into after his shower offered tantalising glimpses of pale skin and prominent collarbone. His feet underneath the table were bare and his long lean legs clad in dark blue skin tight denims. Sherlock looked simply delicious, and once again John found it difficult to focus on the two brothers who were arguing to and fro about the significance of a few unfriendly comments in _The Guardian_.

'It's a trend, Sherlock. A trend we should take seriously! Someone's out to get you.'

Sherlock scoffed and Mycroft's voice rose another notch above pleasant. 'Care to make a list of people you have irritated over the past months?'

'Where to start?' Sherlock tipped his wooden chair back. 'And where to end?' He lifted his arms and linked his hands behind his head, grinning at his brother, his t-shirt riding up in the process, revealing an inch of pale skin. Hastily John put down his pastry, wiped his hand on his trousers, and took another sip of his hot tea.

'I wish you would take this a bit more seriously, little brother.' Mycroft turned the laptop and scrolled down the row of comments. 'There!' he said, turning the screen back to Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

_**fashionlover75                                                3h ago** _

_Saw this Holmes guy in a club the night before the show and, guess what, he was pissed. Looked as if he was going to be sick right on the spot ... or maybe he was high as a kite? Hard to tell with those people, and not exactly uncommon among those posh designer geeks..._

* * *

 

_**strong-ONE81 @fashionlover75                                  2h56m ago** _

_He's a junkie, isn't he? It's well-known. I liked his old stuff, but he's past it. Don't like his women's line at all, too plain for my liking_

* * *

 

_**Black_white25 @strong-ONE81                                  1h30m ago** _

_Past it? I don't assume you've been a guest at his show, so how can you possibly know? The length some people go to to tear down successful people *_* Tall poppy syndrome anyone?_

 

* * *

 

'So?' Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest and raised his eyebrows at his brother. John realised that he was being deliberately obstinate. He got up and stood behind Sherlock. Leaning over his shoulder he read the comments, reaching down to scroll up and read a few more.

'Overall they're very positive,' John said and straightened his back, wincing when his shoulder muscles protested after a night on the sofa.

'Indeed they are, John,' Mycroft said with a small smile. 'But it's the trend that's worrying. Somebody's trying hard to stir up _shit_ to put it plainly.' Mycroft's moue of distaste clearly showed what he thought of having to use one of those distasteful and common phrases. 'My assistant told me there are rumours that one of the large glossy magazines is going to print a scathing feature.'

'Let me guess,' Sherlock said. 'The Vogue.'

'Indeed.' Mycroft leaned against the table and faced Sherlock. 'Care to elaborate?'

'Sometimes it's not hate you need to look out for - love is a much more vicious motivator.'

'Too cryptic. Do explain.'

Sherlock sighed. 'Irene Adler has a _thing_ for me. Has had for years. I ignored her, and she has stayed on the right side of decent so far. I can only assume that she saw John and me yesterday and did not take it well.'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and let his gaze travel slowly and meaningfully between John and Sherlock. 'Saw you? What could she possibly have seen?'

'Nothing indecent, my dear brother. But maybe she's a better reader of the human psyche than I would have credited her for.'

'Ah! I see.'

But John did not. He frowned, unsure whether Sherlock had just declared openly that there was indeed a special _something_ between them. True, it was as plain as day to John, inevitable, and he had long accepted defeat. But what about Sherlock?

Just now he had been given an exciting bit of insight, though, which reassured him, and tenderness and the strong urge to touch Sherlock, to run his fingers through his curls, trace the collarbone with his index finger or better yet, with his tongue, rose in him like a flame. Clearing his throat he glanced away, focusing on the hem of his t-shirt. When he was composed enough to face the reality of the moment once more, he found Sherlock's bright eyes resting on him, intense and observant, and a small smile playing around his lips.

Mycroft, who was just an astute reader of people as his younger brother, rolled his eyes. 'Do concentrate, please! What are we going to do?'

'Ignore - or attack,' Sherlock said with a sigh. 'What else _is_ there to do?'

 

 

*******

 

 

Mycroft's car had dropped John off at his flat as he needed to shower and pack some fresh clothes (and toiletries - just in case). John was merely being cautious, who knew what today had in store, and he might not make it back to his flat tonight.

They had agreed to meet at Sherlock's flat later this afternoon to go through the newspapers and trail through online reviews and comments. Despite Mycroft's worries, Sherlock was not overly concerned, he knew that his collection was outstanding, and unlike most people he was not dependent on praise from others. As long as the order books were full and enabled him to continue working and keep his employees, he was fine. Whether other people liked him or not, was irrelevant.

Rifling through his wardrobe, John selected a suit and shirt for now, fresh underwear, a navy blue jumper and dark denims for later. He also grabbed the paperback he had been trying to read for weeks from his night table, and packing his clothes into his old holdall, John realised that Sherlock had not told him where he wanted to go or who he had planned to meet this afternoon.

It stung.

John berated himself - _You don't own him, you idiot_ \- but a nagging feeling of doubt remained.

 

 

*******

 

 

At half past two Sherlock sat down with Irene Adler in her hotel room and politely declined the offer of herbal tea. She was chatting incessantly and Sherlock patiently waited, letting his eyes roam discreetly through the tasteful, but impersonal room.

'What I love most is the neatness of your designs, Sherlock. Especially in the women's evening dresses. Neatness paired with extraordinary sophistication. An intoxicating mixture indeed. I ordered the black silk and the dark grey sequined one on the spot. They will be perfect for two events I have coming up. Oh! I'm going to look fantastic!'

'I'm delighted.' Sherlock's lips lifted in a motion similar to a smile, but his eyes stayed cold. He brushed non-existent specks from his immaculate trousers and crossed his legs. Irene seemed to have run out of steam and was silent, sipping her tea and nibbling the miniature version of a dry-looking biscuit.

Sherlock focused on Irene, his eyes never leaving her face, as it was one of his oldest principles to never leave an enemy out of sight when attacking.

'You know I love to be direct and I don't see much use in delaying the inevitable. Besides, I'm curious and there's one thing I don't understand. If you're so delighted, why are you out to get me?'

'Am I?' Irene lifted a perfect brow, her face a beautiful, yet artificial study of innocence. She put the biscuit down and sipped from her herbal tea, then placed the delicate cup back in an even more delicate saucer. 'What gives you that idea?' A smile danced over her face, coy, yet seductive. 'There are quite a few things I would like to _do_ to you, Sherlock dear, exciting things we would both enjoy - but I'm not _out to get you_ as you so inelegantly put it.' Her smile widened, and Sherlock's suspicions grew. 'Nothing could be further from the truth! Did I not publish a rave review of your show? Did I not shower you and your designs with praise? Did I not interview you for our next issue to accompany a feature of your fashion? Why would _I_ want to bring you down?' She leaned forward, her knees almost touching Sherlock's leg. He resisted the urge to snatch it away.

'Good,' he said. 'Rumours, Irene. I heard rumours...' he left the sentence unfinished, careful not to give away more than was strictly necessary.

'Don't worry, dear. You are entirely safe! I have no intention whatsoever of harming you or your company.'

Sherlock nodded, relaxing. He shuffled forward, confident to have fulfilled his task, and ready to go. After all it was his one day off after the show and John had most certainly returned and was waiting for him at home. Irene had other plans and placed a possessive hand on his knee, the long, blood red nails like a wound on the fine dark cloth of Sherlock's trousers.

'Why would I want to harm you?' she purred. 'You know how I enjoy your company, and I'm sure we will have a lot more fun in the future.' Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but Irene placed a finger on his lips to stop him. 'I'm not going to bring _you_ down, Sherlock. I'm going to bring down John Watson.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger ... I hope you enjoyed this chapter, even though Sherlock and John did not have many quiet moments together, but I can promise you that we're getting there ;)  
> Thank you MapleleafCameo for helping me out with a phrase I was unsure about! And thank all of you for your great feedback - Please keep it up :)  
> JJ xx


	7. Abendlied

A soft rap on the door broke John's concentration. He looked up from the stack of papers on his desk - bills from caterers and hair stylists, operating under such fanciful names as _Cupcakes Extraordinaire_ and _The Cut Above_. He blinked, he was growing tired and in need of a rest.

'Whoohoo!' Mrs Hudson sang, entering John's office with a flourish. She looked lovely in a dark cerise ensemble, her face rosy and refreshed. 'I just dropped by to bring back my tools,' she patted a smallish dark purple sewing box, otherwise known as _Martha's Magic Box_. 'I wanted to see how Sherlock is - and _you_ , of course!' She winked at him, her eyes glinting mischievously, and John blushed.

'Ta! I'm fine, thanks. Sherlock's not back yet. He went out -' John glanced at his watch, squinting at what the clock face dared show him and frowned. 'Well, he should be back any minute.'

'Oh, that's fine, John. It's all our day off, after all. Do tell him I called, would you?'

'Of course, Mrs Hudson. I will!'

Mrs Hudson gracefully turned on her heels and danced out of the room, her good mood glimmering around her petite figure like a luminescent cloak. John looked after her and smiled fondly. The smile lingered, but wilted and died when his thoughts travelled back a few weeks and memories of a bleak and lonely life surfaced. Memories of the time before he had started working here, before he had met Mrs Hudson, Chloe, Greg and Molly, and Sherlock, of course. His heart leapt at the thought of him, but when he glanced at his watch again, anticipation and dread took over, because he had still not come back.

 

 

*****  
**

 

 

'John Watson?' Sherlock smirked and leaned back in his chair, displaying nonchalance bordering on indifference. 'What's John Watson to me? He's my PA.' He shrugged, 'Everyone is replaceable. There will be another one.'

'As far as I know one or two of your former PAs came quite - ' Irene paused for effect, ' _close_. But I'm inclined to believe you, of course.' She smiled and lightly patted Sherlock's knee before she got up. 'Excellent!'

Irene picked up the house telephone and pressed a button. 'Room service? Champagne, please. Two glasses - Room 501. Make it quick.'

Sherlock glanced at her lean back, narrowing his eyes, unaware of her beauty, her immaculate hair, the beautiful dress, his thoughts circling around one thing and one thing only - how to save John from this woman and her greedy claws. When Irene turned around and slowly advanced, he got up, walking over to the large window, eager to put distance between them.

He glanced outside, at the cars busily zipping by in the street below, at the people hurrying past each other, oblivious of the little drama unfolding up here. Irene came up behind him and leaned her face against his back. Sherlock tensed, but told himself he had to relax, had to pretend.

 

 

*******

 

 

At half past eight John grabbed his phone to check for a text from Sherlock for the umpteenth time. Disappointment flooded him when his screen stared bleakly back at him, its emptiness mocking him. He tossed it onto his desk, but grabbed it a second later to check again. Nothing.

Leaning back in his chair he tried to bring order to his racing thoughts. He glanced up at the windows, the darkness outside was profound now, and with a sigh he switched off the light on his desk.

He fought to urge to get up and remain standing at the window in the darkness, to glance down at the street, nervously waiting for a cab to pull up and bring him back Sherlock. His growling stomach decided matters for him, it was late and he had to eat after all - and if nothing else, it would occupy him for a while.

At this hour nobody was in the flat beside him - Mrs Hudson and Chloe were long gone - and he decided to raid Sherlock's kitchen for something edible.

*****

'Jesus - ' he breathed into a fridge which was as stylish as it was empty - save for two bottles of champagne and various eye masks. His stomach growled loudly again, reminding him that two croissants at noon were not enough food to sustain a grown man. The cupboards revealed a few staples, tinned tomato sauce, pasta and risotto rice, but no herbs, no onions, nothing really, which could tickle John's ambition to turn these few ingredients into an appealing dish. With a rueful sigh he gave in and called his favourite Thai takeaway.

Half an hour later he was munching away, his stomach noticeably appeased, bordering on happy, and his mood lifted. A carafe full of tap water, gentrified with a generous slice of lemon, accompanied his meal. A thorough inspection of the freezer had produced a tub of high quality ice cream which he intended to take through to the living room and to demolish while waiting for Sherlock to come home. Surely he would not be long in coming, and he could not help but smile at the thought of bright eyes and black curls, pale skin and everything else which made this man so bloody outstanding.

 

 

*******

 

 

Sherlock ended the call and pocketed his mobile. Unsure what to do now, he glanced up at the facade of the grand townhouse. Only a few lights were on behind the large windows, but no light shone from his own floor.

He straightened his back and unlocked the massive wooden front door. Inside, the house was quiet and for reasons he was not ready to examine he avoided switching on the hall light. Enough light was falling through the windows from the street lamps anyway, making it child's play to climb the stairs in darkness and then slip the key into the lock and turn. Nonetheless he took some time unlocking the door to his flat, time needed to arrange his thoughts, his face.

Inside Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and left it next to the clock on the sideboard in the ante room. It was half past eleven - John would no longer be there, he knew it, and maybe it was for the best. He was not sure if he had the guts to face him right now.

Fatigue hit him like a punch to the stomach and he almost stumbled - _Focus!_ \- he berated himself, squaring his shoulders. It was important not to falter now, he had to manoeuvre his way through this.

Light shone through the open door of his living room and his heart leaped at this detail, allowing him a glimmer of hope. But he was inattentive when he walked through the door, his whole body taut like a bowstring and entirely focused on what he hoped to find. His hand brushed a little china figurine on one of the shelves sending it crashing to the floor, where it exploded into tiny pieces.

'Wha-?' John woke up, alarmed, the soldier in him telling him to crouch on the floor, his eyes scanning his surroundings and his heart beating a frantic tattoo in his chest. 'Sherl -,' he breathed when he recognised him. He clambered back onto the sofa and wiped his hand over his face in an attempt to gain control of his breathing.

'John,' Sherlock said, ignoring the mess he had made. Instead he crossed the room and sat down next to him. He seemed nervous and could not meet John's eyes.

'What?' John asked, a cold feeling of dread settling in his chest. 'What is it?'

'I - um,' Sherlock cleared his throat, still not looking at him. 'I think I owe you an explanation.'

John nodded, his throat too tight to allow him to answer with more than a gesture. Sherlock's entrance had been dramatic, had alarmed him, and his heart was still racing. The combination of both was making him feel ill-tempered.

'Where I was ... what I did.' Sherlock placed both hands on his thighs and John fixed his eyes on the long, pale digits. Those hands, usually so expressive, were utterly still right now. It was as if life had seeped out of them and John blinked, willing Sherlock to move, to be himself again - and to declare himself.

'I went to see Irene Adler this afternoon...'

'Irene Adler? About the interview? Was there a problem with it? I thought it was ...' He realised and frowned. 'Oh - right. This afternoon? But it's ...' he checked his watch. 'It's almost midnight.'

'Clearly,' Sherlock said, some of his usual arrogance back in place. He lifted his arms and pressed both hands against his temples. John experienced an acute sense of loss because his eyes had been bereft of their anchor. Stubbornly he refused to look at Sherlock, but focused on his own stockinged feet instead.

'Nothing about the interview ... at least not ... no ... I went to see her because I thought ignoring her would be the wrong decision - I went to attack.' He was quiet, choosing his next words carefully. 'She crumbled like a piece of dry toast.'

'I don't understand,' John looked up then and glanced at Sherlock, who looked tired and tense, his eyes flickering, not meeting his.

'Well, she admitted to having a scathing feature up her sleeve, we talked about it, I convinced her not to publish it, end of story.'

'I don't understand,' John repeated.

'Don't be obtuse, John,' Sherlock snapped and got up. He needed distance.

'Right - So you talked? And then what - she relented? Just like that?'

'Is that so hard to believe? I can be very convincing.'

John got up, a sudden urge to shake Sherlock, to make him spit everything out, tingling in his fingers. It took some effort to remain calm. 'And what did she want in return?'

Sherlock turned away, biting his lip. Quietly he answered.

'Me.'

 

 

*******

 

 

Irene's fingertips lightly trailed along Sherlock's shoulder blade and down his arm. Involuntarily his fists clenched and he closed his eyes. He turned away from her touch.

'I think we're done here, Irene.' Sherlock walked over to the chair and grabbed his coat. When he shrugged into it and put up his collar, he felt confidence seeping back into his body.

'You surprise me, Sherlock. I would have thought, your loyalty runs deeper. I have to say it's a tiny bit disappointing.' Her tone was as teasing and light as the accusation was hard and appropriate. She tilted her head, her blood red lips parting in an inviting smile. 'Not staying for a glass of champagne? Come on, one won't hurt, dear.'

Sherlock forced a smile onto his face, he saw no way out of this, and so he relented. 'All right - Just the one.'

Irene clapped her hands, 'Splendid!'

 

 

*******

 

 

A sharp pain pierced John's heart and it felt like death - _Yeah, that's it. Serves you right, you fool, serves you fucking right_ \- He got up, standing next to the sofa, feeling entirely out of place and frankly ridiculous. His instinct was to run, but something held him back, rooted him to the spot. Hope, maybe, or disbelief that he could have misjudged the situation so profoundly. But of course he had! How on earth could he have thought they were going to up end up _happily ever after_? _Delusional idiot!_

His fists clenched, the right hand opening and closing without him noticing. But Sherlock saw and he averted his eyes, and digging his nails into his palms, he relished the sharp pain.

'What the _fuck_ does that mean?' John pressed out. 'Hmm? Would you care to explain?'

'No, John - I wouldn't.'

'Right - okay.' John's body was slightly swaying, expressing his indecision whether to smash every piece of _bloody_ _overprized_ furniture in this room or to just turn and run. 'I thought I would be worth an explanation at least.' He waited for a response, one second, two, three, and then he turned and grabbed his shoes and jacket. 'Evidently not,' he spat. 'Don't bother, I'll let myself out.'

The loud bang of the living room against the wall was like a slap across Sherlock's face and he knew that he absolutely deserved it. The text alert pinged and with trembling fingers he fished his mobile out of his trouser pocket.

_Operation dominatrix is go - M_

Sherlock turned on his heels and bolted out of the room in pursuit of John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Sherlock has a LOT of explaining to do ...  
> Thank you sooo much for all your feedback, you're great! I always love to hear from you.  
> JJ xx
> 
> P.S.: Abendlied (German) - evening song


	8. Equilibrium

'John!'

John continued to run, away from this mess, his face flushed and contorted by anger. By the time he had reached the ante room he had slipped into his shoes and was shrugging into his jacket, ready to leave. Of course, he heard Sherlock coming after him, heard him calling out, but right now he could not care less. He yanked the front door open and left the flat without hesitation.

'John, wait!'

In the hallway John hit the light switch with his clenched fist, plunging the stairs into glaring light. He was storming down the first flight of stairs when Sherlock finally caught up with him. Grabbing his arm, clamping his fingers forcefully around John's biceps, he made him stop. But John's anger was very much alive and he had no problem to wrestle his arm free. He grunted and turned, walking up two, three steps again, his obvious fury forcing Sherlock to retreat.

'What?' He growled, his voice dangerously low. 'What do you want?' He lifted his eyebrows mockingly and spread his arms wide open. 'Feeling lonely? Feeling a sudden urge to humiliate me just a tad more?'

Quickly he stepped forward and angrily stabbed a finger against Sherlock's chest. It hurt, and Sherlock stumbled back up the last step and onto the landing. John followed like an angry retriever, his head lowered and sniffing, crowding him against the wall. 'Tell me - _what_ could you possibly want? Because I have nothing left to give to you.'

'John, let me explain - I need to tell you about...'

'Details? Want to brag, Sherlock? Want to share?' John tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. 'Ah! That reminds me - maybe _you_ forgot what you said that first day, but _I_ didn't - _My last PA had to go because he did not want to share_ \- Well, I won't share either!'

Sherlock looked bemused. 'What's that got to do with anything?'

'I don't share!'

'Who asked you to?'

John cleared his throat, but he seemed to have run out of steam for the moment and remained silent.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. They were standing so close that he could feel John's hot breath on his cheek. 'You think I belong to you,' he said, bemused surprise evident in every word.

John glanced away, fixing his eyes to a point next to Sherlock's face, trying to collect his thoughts, but found no words to reply. He stared at the wall, at the grand wooden front door standing wide open to the flat, at Sherlock's shirted chest right in front of him. 'I thought there was something between us -' Just the few words, spoken quietly and aimed at the wall - even though Sherlock was so close, but somehow John could not stomach the scrutiny of those piercing eyes - and sadness apparent in every syllable. 'It's obvious that I was wrong.'

John nodded, turned on his heels and walked away. He had descended a few steps when the automatic light in the hallway switched off. As if to counter the sudden darkness his anger flared up again and he swiftly advanced back up the stairs towards Sherlock.

'For _fuck's_ sake, Sherlock! Who do you think you are? You are nothing but an arrogant, egotistical, rude despot. Working for you is hellish, do you know that?  Impossibly long hours and not a _Thank you, John_ or _Well done, John_ in sight -  Do you have any idea how often I had to take the flak for you? Do you have any idea how often Mrs Hudson or Chloe were close to walking out? How many teas and coffees I had to drink over comforting conversations in the kitchen? Do you have any idea what other people in the business think of your behaviour? _Jesus_ , I can't even remember why I fell in love with you ...'

John stopped talking, afraid of what he had just said. He gazed at the floor, at his shoes, and all of a sudden he felt cold.

'Are you done?'

'Yes - um - Yes, I think so.'

'You are in love with me?'

'Of course, that's what you pick up on.'

'Everything else you said is more or less self-evident and I'm sure you'll believe me when I say that I've heard it before.'

John stared at Sherlock in the dim light of the hallway, and when his words registered he felt tears pricking behind his eyes. 'Bloody hell...' he muttered and with one big stride he was right in front of Sherlock, cupped his face with both hands and kissed him.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise and then fluttered closed, when he gave himself to the feeling of being kissed by the man who was in love with him. Gave in to being kissed by John, who he himself loved with all his heart, whom he longed to tell everything that had happened today - tell him that he had done everything to save him and nothing to hurt him, nothing at all.

Instead of words, which would come later, he used the tips of his fingers, caressing John's nape with infinite care, used his head, tilting it just so and instinctively finding the right angle, used his lips, moving gently against John's, getting acquainted, telling him that _yes_ , he was the one, and _no_ , he had not betrayed him.

 

 

*******

 

 

Sherlock lay back on his bed and drank in the sight of John looming over him, a shy smile lingering in the corners of his mouth and the crinkles of his eyes. He answered it, of course, he did. Pleasant warmth flooded his chest, calmness seeped into his heart and he relished those seconds of lingering in a state of in-between, when everything is decided, but very much a promise still.

He lifted his hand to brush away a few hairs from John's forehead and John's eyes closed in response to his touch. Turning his face a bit he caught Sherlock's palm in a kiss.

'John,' Sherlock whispered. 'I need to tell you about Irene ...'

'Shh,' John kissed his fingers, one by one. 'I know you want to and I will let you - '

'But...'

'Do you trust me?'

'I do.'

'I know now that I can trust you, too.' John looked at Sherlock and then lowered his head to brush his lips over his cheek and temple before he dipped lower. 'Later,' he mouthed against his lips. 'Later...'

 

 

*******

 

 

His hands clutched at the sheet, twisting it between his fingers as he arched his back and let his legs fall open even wider. A sheen of sweat shimmered on his brows, and he felt beads of moisture trickling down his spine. His head was dizzy, as if he was lacking oxygen, and he was close, so close, his pleasure mounting with every swirl and lick.

A formidable wave was building deep inside his belly, making him aware of every fibre in his body, every atom in his lungs. His skin was tingling, his toes curling, he was gasping and panting, reduced to pure feeling, a writhing mess. His mind was a blissful chaos of swirling thoughts, while his whole being was focused on the climax building and on the man giving him this pleasure.

'John,' he gasped, burying his hands in John's hair, pushing him away and pulling him closer at the same time. John's hands were curled around Sherlock's thighs, but he reached out and found his right hand, intertwining their fingers, holding on when Sherlock arched his back once more and lifted his hips off the sheets when his pleasure mounted and crested.

 

 

*******

 

 

John lifted his head and welcomed the sunlight filtering through the curtains, illuminating a changed world.

His hand was resting lightly on smooth and hot skin, his legs were intertwined with Sherlock's long limbs, and the man himself was sleeping next to him, his face turned towards John, his curls in a level of chaos only achieved by hands mussing them in the fits of passion. John smirked at the cliché and kissed the one prominent freckle on Sherlock's shoulder, rubbing his nose gently over the smooth skin.

'Hmm' Sherlock mumbled, but kept his eyes stubbornly closed. 'Is it morning yet?'

'Afraid so,' John continued kissing Sherlock's shoulder, moving confidently and steadily.

'Time to talk,' Sherlock said bluntly and opened his eyes. John looked at him and nodded. He felt that it might put him at a certain disadvantage to talk this over while lying in bed next to Sherlock, naked, and very much in love. He knew, right now, he would let him get away with everything, and he knew that Sherlock was aware of this as well.

'I don't see why I should beat around the bush,' Sherlock began, and when he saw that John flinched slightly, he clarified. 'Irene did not have me, and she will never have me, John. She tried to play with me, make me a pawn in her game of chess, but I would not comply. Instead I played a game with her - with Mycroft's help. He _can_ be invaluable sometimes,' he smirked, but John was too tense to join in the banter. 'She threatened you. Threatened to bring you down - obviously I could not have that. I pretended, John - Told her you meant nothing to me to make her feel safe and in charge. She'd told me that she intended to leave me and my company in peace and that only you were her target.'

John lay back, staring at the ceiling, letting Sherlock's words wash over him. He felt that he could cope better that way. Sherlock glanced at him. He understood and mirrored his position on the bed before he continued to talk.

'I happen to know that our dear Irene has a rather delicate and compromising hobby, involving whips and other instruments as well as important names in the UK and across the Atlantic. Let's just say I reverted to a little blackmail myself, and it helped considerably that Mycroft is, as of yesterday, in possession of a series of compromising emails and more importantly photos which would effectively ruin Ms Adler's career. You see, child's play.'

John turned his head and found a smug smile plastered on Sherlock's face. 'No need to look so pleased with yourself, smartarse.'

John was jesting, but he could not help himself, any involvement of Sherlock with that woman or and other man or woman was one too many in John's book. When John loved, he loved with all his might, and he was a very jealous man. Right now, a myriad of conflicting feelings were racing through his head.

'I guess, I should thank you for saving my reputation.'

'Clearly.'

'Thank you.'

John sat up, dipped his head and lightly kissed his cheek, and then straddled him in one swift movement, pinning Sherlock's hands over his head.

'Thank you, thank you very _much_ ' he hissed, 'But don't forget, Sherlock. Should she ever come near you again, I will fight her myself, and I don't give a fucking damn about my reputation. You are mine, understood? _Mine_.'

He crushed his lips against Sherlock's and his rough and messy kisses were answered with just as much eager aggressiveness, which needed to run its course, establishing and breaking down boundaries, allowing closeness and intimacy. John was the one to break off first, breathing hard, his flushed face mirrored by Sherlock's swollen lips and mottled skin. They stared at each other, their eyes roaming over each other's faces as if seeing, really seeing each other for the first time.

'You are mine,' John repeated, much gentler this time.

'Ditto,' Sherlock whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to update before the Easter weekend, so here we are - the boys finally together! There's a bit more to come ... :)  
> Thank you all for your wonderful feedback, it's a great pleasure hearing from you!  
> JJ xx


	9. Epilogue I

_One month later_

 

John tilted his head to the side and observed.

Observed the blue-green eyes, just there, right in front him. The small mole above Sherlock's left eye, the tiny freckles on the cheeks, where the sun had kissed him. The laughter lines around his eyes, speaking of humour and life. The plush lips, kissed and revered in abundance. Pale, almost translucent skin, beautiful like marble, unblemished, the rosy hue on the cheekbones accentuating the noble paleness. His beautiful face, framed by the dark curls he styled lovingly and with care every morning. John's heart leaped and he glanced down at his left hand resting on Sherlock's thigh, when he thought of the occasions he had been witness to his morning ritual. Looked up again and anchored his eyes to Sherlock's heaving chest, his heart beating steadily underneath John's fingers splayed over the thin fabric of his shirt.

And Sherlock observed John.

Registered the tip of John's tongue darting out and the downcast eyes, felt the warmth of his hand seeping through the fabric of his trousers and the tips of John's fingers on his chest, his heartbeat willingly answering the silent enquiry. Registered the flush on John's cheeks, and the dark red of his lips.

But his mind was racing, distracting him, steering his thoughts away from this precious moment. Obviously, it was - Rarely was he able to calm down completely, to shut off his ever-busy brain, to make it _stop_. Quite frankly, he did not know how - if he chose to ignore the drug-induced calmness he had experienced, that was - Never in his life had there been an anchor to tie him down, never had there been a companion to guide him into calmer waters, not until..

\- _Focus, focus!_ -

As usual he was quick to berate himself to get back on track, restlessly fragmenting his observations, reconnecting, filing away, snippets from this morning, two weeks ago, last night, now, but when his eyes came to rest on John's face again, ready to catalogue the minute changes he saw, something was different -

He felt his brain stuttering, his thoughts slowing down, felt calm stealthily approaching him. He sharply sucked in his breath while his mind gradually calmed down, his thoughts gently swirling instead of frantically racing, calming down more and more, culminating in peaceful quiet -

It had been John lifting his hands and cupping Sherlock's face, the gentle touch from the person he loved providing the anchor he had so desperately longed for. His eyes fluttered closed and he gave himself entirely to John's touch. When John lifted his hands mere seconds later, Sherlock gasped at the loss of contact, his eyes blinking open. John saw the outrage and confusion on Sherlock's face and smiled. He had no intention of breaking contact, his fingers were merely fluttering close to Sherlock's temple before they touched his hair, playing with one particularly errant curl, extending it and letting it bounce back. Sherlock giggled - _Giggled, for God's sakes!_  

Emboldened by this reaction John ran his hands through this riot of curls, his fingertips lightly scraping over Sherlock's scalp, enjoying the mass of silky strands. Closing his eyes again Sherlock let his forehead fall forward until it touched John's cheek.

'This is - very pleasant,' he murmured and rubbed his temple against John's soft skin.

'I always imagined doing that to you,' John whispered, his fingers busy dishevelling Sherlock's curls. They were silky, softer than soft actually, and playing with Sherlock's hair was one of the most sensuous things John had ever experienced. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the heady amalgam of the texture of Sherlock's hair and of his proximity, his scent - part sinfully expensive Eau de Cologne, part shampoo, part Sherlock's skin - and it made John realise how happy he was.

'I ...' he started to say.

'You two are truly and utterly _disgusting_!'

A friendly voice boomed from behind them, the words cutting through John's attempt to spice the gentle silence with meaning. Sherlock smiled against John's lips, but made no move to get up from his lap or lift his hands from where they rested on his hips. Instead he kissed John again, long and deep, sparking some of the earlier excitement, his eyes closed, as if they were still alone. He softly moaned and John was more than happy to follow his lead, to oblige him and to ignore the onlookers. The faint chuckle and the clearing of throats registered, but he would not stop.

'Greg!' Sherlock eventually said, adjusting his tie and leisurely turning his head towards their visitors, Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper, who had both remained standing on the threshold to Sherlock's showroom. 'Molly! I'm glad you two managed to find some time for us. I know how busy you are.'

'John! - Sherlock!'

Greg strolled over to the two men, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets, and stood next to them, his whole stance expressing nonchalance and contentment. 'You _have_ changed, I must say!' His tanned face under the artfully tousled mob of silver hair was open and friendly, his sparkling eyes as blinding as his dazzling white teeth.

'I would always go out of my way to find time for you, Sherlock - and John - no matter how busy. We've squeezed you in between two shootings. You said it was urgent, so here we are!'

Molly, lovely as always in a knee-length floral dress, had listened intently, nodding a greeting to the men. She was barely able to contain the huge smile on her face, her eyes darting between John and a positively glowing Sherlock who was still unashamedly straddling his PA. Both men looked flushed and dishevelled, but admittedly happy and rather gorgeous in their crisp suits.

'You both look fantastic,' she said.

'Thank you, Molly,' John said, 'You look lovely as well.'

Molly blushed and glanced at Greg, who nodded at her and placed his right hand at the small of her back, causing her blush to deepen. John gently pushed Sherlock, who had the nerve to pout at him, but after a short and silent battle of wills obediently got up from his lap, only to sit down next to him on the small sofa, his hands folded over his crotch and his legs crossed. John glanced at him and smirked, unobtrusively crossing his legs as well, hiding themselves from all too curious stares.

Lestrade smirked, but then tactfully guided Molly over to the other side of the room. 'Let's set up our gear over there, sweetheart.'

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows inquisitively at this term of endearment, following on the heels of the rather telling and intimate touch and blush, and promptly opened his mouth to comment.

'Don't,' John softly said. 'Let it go.'

Sherlock clicked his tongue and scoffed, but he obeyed. Waiting a moment for things to calm down a little, they watched Greg and Molly working hand in hand setting up the lights and the screens. When Sherlock eventually got up, he squeezed John's hand, before straightening his trousers and the lapels of his suit. With his back to Lestrade and Molly he gently traced his thumb along John's jaw and leaned down to kiss him once more.

'Right - Enough play, let's get down to business!'

 

 

*******

 

 

_Click - click - click_

'Yes, that's great, John - turn to Sherlock, a bit more, still a bit more - that's it.'

_Click - click - click_

'Face each other now - I want to take your profiles - oh, yes - that's gorgeous.'

_Click - click - click_

'Right - let's change outfits!'

Lestrade turned to Molly and pecked her on the cheek, 'This is going to be a great series!'

'They are lovely together, don't you think?'

Lestrade's gaze followed Sherlock and John who were walking over to the clothes rack to choose a new outfit. Sherlock was laughing about something John had said and quickly embraced him. John let his gaze linger on Sherlock when he turned away to shrug out of his jacket.

'I've never seen him like that,' Lestrade shook his head in wonder. 'It's amazing.'

'How long have you known him?' Molly asked.

'Hmm,' Lestrade scratched his head. 'I met him when he started out in the business ... maybe six, seven years ago? He was a rude bastard - still is when you rub him the wrong way, but John's ...' He narrowed his eyes, searching for the right word. 'He's good for him, makes him better apparently. He even got my name right today!'

'That's a first, actually.' Molly grinned and looked at her employer turned lover. 'You are a good man too, Greg.'

'Am I?' He closed the gap between them and kissed her quickly. 'Why, thank you.'

 

 

*****

 

 

Sherlock zipped up his skin tight charcoal grey trousers and then pulled a pale grey cashmere V-neck jumper over his head, worn on nothing but his pale skin, all the while never taking his eyes off Lestrade and Molly.

'Two weeks and three days,' he softly said.

'What?'

'Greg and Molly - They've been together two weeks and three days.'

'How can you possibly know?'

'As usual you see but you do not observe. All the signs are there. Molly's still shy and blushing every time Greg touches her and he can't wipe this inane smile off his face...'

'Like you, you mean.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'That _inane_ _smile_ \- it's been plastered onto your face since - you know when.'

'Is that so?'

'Yes!'

'Shut up!'

John grabbed Sherlock's hand and placed a kiss into his palm, glancing up at him through his lashes. 'Shut up yourself!'

Sherlock fixed his eyes on him, grinning, enjoying the moment, and then reluctantly withdrew his hand. He rifled through the hangers on the clothes rack and handed John a cashmere jumper, matching his own. 'Hurry up!'

 

 

*****

 

 

'I'd like to try another pose - if you're amenable?'

'Sure,' John said and Sherlock nodded. They both trusted Greg and waited for him to pose them.

'John, please stand in front of Sherlock, your back to him.'

'Like that?'

'Yes, that's it - and you, Sherlock, wrap your arms around John from behind - yes, good.'

John placed both hands on Sherlock's arms, feeling the warm skin through the silky wool. Sherlock's body was pressed to his, effectively enveloping him and it felt amazing. Greg narrowed his eyes, checking if adjustments were necessary, but found that due to their height difference it was a perfect composition, and he hurried to capture it.

_Click - click - click_

'Looks great! - Yes! - Oh, Sherlock... wait! Molly?'

Greg pointed to his own head and then to Sherlock and Molly hurried to rearrange Sherlock's curls artfully. Greg gave Molly the thumbs-up and continued snapping away.

_Click - click - click_

A few more photos, then Lestrade paused to check the ones he had already taken on the display of his camera, slowly clicking through them one by one, until he had found _the one_ \- 'Perfect!' - he said and waved to Sherlock and John to join him. Peering over Greg's shoulder they both looked at the photo he had chosen:

It showed Sherlock embracing John from behind, their hands touching, and Sherlock kissing the top of his head, burying his lips in John's hair, arching one brow, laughter lines crinkling around his eyes and John raising a surprised brow himself, the sweetest smile playing around his lips.

'Perfect, Greg,' Sherlock said, his voice muffled with emotions. 'Just perfect.'

 

 

*******

 

 

'I'm knackered!'

John flopped down onto the bed, lying back, his arms splayed and his legs dangling over the edge.

'Obviously! You're an old man and a few hours of work and a photo shoot must wear you out!'

'Oi! Watch it or I'll show you!'

'John, your threat would be a bit more convincing if you weren't lying down, unable to lift a finger.'

John giggled, 'As much as I hate to admit it, you're right - _and_ you're safe.'

'Thank God, that's a relief - I was truly worried!'

Sherlock smirked, shrugged out of his jacket and slipped out of his shoes. John lazily turned his head towards him and watched him undress. Sherlock's fingers deftly unbuttoned his shirt. He caught John watching and hesitated a moment. Arching one brow inquisitively he waited for John to nod before he let the shirt flutter to the floor, then he unbuckled his belt and tugged his fingers into the waistband of his trousers and briefs to push both down in one fluid movement and step out of them. Naked, he walked to the bathroom, presenting his lush behind to John who followed his every movement with his eyes.

'Joining me?' Sherlock called, shouting over running water, and with a grunt John heaved himself from the bed, slipped out of his shoes and jacket and followed him into the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally planned to end Aquiver with this chapter, but this fic seems to have a mind of its own (don't they all?), and now that they're in the bathroom ... well, it will take another chapter to finish this, I think! I hope, you don't mind :)  
> JJ xx


	10. Epilogue II

Sherlock lazily turned his head to the mirror, which had steamed up, and sighed. The only sounds in the bathroom was the occasional swirling of water when a finger or a wrist or an ankle moved and the steady _drip - drip - drip_ of the tiny droplets falling from the faucet into the hot water, more the shadows of sounds than an actual disturbance.

This is bliss, Sherlock thought, closing his eyes and fractionally adjusted his position, the water pleasantly swirling around him.

'Comfortable?' John asked, lifting his head from Sherlock's chest, waiting for Sherlock's low 'Hmm,' before settling back onto the warm and humid skin. Sherlock's hands were lying folded on John's abdomen. Thankfully the tub was large enough to accommodate the two of them quite comfortably - John reclining atop Sherlock, his back to Sherlock's chest - both of them enjoying the silky softness of the hot water softly sloshing around them.

'You know, John.' Sherlock dreamily said after a while. 'There are a few things I need to tell you.' He noticed tension taking hold of John's body and hastened to add, 'Nothing serious, obviously. Just a few details that are - um - bothering me. Something that's been on my mind for a while.'

'Really?' John softly said. 'I thought the concept of a bad conscience was alien to you.'

'Who said something about a bad conscience?'

'You did - just now. Not so much with actual words, but with the fact that you're bringing this up at all.'

'Good,' Sherlock simply said.

'Thank you,' John lifted Sherlock's right hand and kissed the long pale fingers, prettily covered in sweetly scented bubbles. 'Go on,' he prodded.

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated on the world within himself. He needed to go to a moment some weeks back, sift through his memories, delete a few impressions and rearrange some others, and then he needed to find the appropriate words to express what he really wanted to convey.

'Remember the night before the Fashion Show?'

John nodded.

'When I - um - took the coke and you had to - um - stay with me?'

'Babysitting you, you mean? How could I forget?' John's voice was serious when he recalled that particular _bloody_ part of the night, but he could not suppress a chuckle when he continued. 'And - I woke up to you looming over me like a ghost.'

'I wasn't _looming_.'

'You were _in_ my bedroom, sitting next to me, doing whatever it was you had been doing - you're right, that's not looming, that's stalking.'

'You're not helping, John,' Sherlock said and John noticed the slight note of pain in his voice. He squeezed his hand. 'You know, I did not mind you being there, in my room - but I did mind that you flirted with me that night, only to drop me like a hot potato. What the bloody hell had that been about?'

'Yes - _that_.'

John felt Sherlock moving, a little nervous shifting of a leg, the splaying of fingers. He knew him well enough by now that he did not need to see his face to know that the little furrow was visible between his brows, that his lips were pursed, that his whole face was a study of concentration.

'I was baffled when I realised how you responded to my _flirting_ , how you reacted to me and what could follow. What it meant that you had seen me at my worst and that you were still there in my flat, in my life. You had not fled, had not abandoned me. And then you went on saying that you had been in serious relationships, the last one with a man and two women before, which obviously means that you are a mature man, that you had loved before ... and,' he stopped.

'And?'

' _And_ you enquired about important people in my past, and I realised that I had nothing comparable in my life, had nothing to offer you...'

'What do you mean? You have so much to offer, Sherlock. So much to give...'

'That's not what I'm talking about!' Sherlock's voice had risen. 'What I want to say is that there had never been an important person in my past. Not one! A string of lovers, people to share a few meaningless and shallow hours with, a means to an end, yes, but I had never loved ...' again, he stopped and John's heart leapt and broke a little at the same time, when two things hit home. First: Sherlock loved him! Second: He had never loved anyone before.

'Oh, Sherl...' John breathed and sat up in the tub, the agitated water sloshing over the rim and splashing onto the marble floor. He could not care less and so he scooted forward and leaned down, cupping Sherlock's face with his hands.

'Listen. What happened before we met is of no interest to me. You don't have to prove anything to me, I don't give a fuck about past lovers or flings or whatever, or what you think the lack of a serious relationship says about you - Sherlock, it does not matter. Nothing matters but you and me. I want to be with you - here, now, and as long as you'll have me...' He pressed a quick kiss onto his lips and whispered the following words against his mouth, their foreheads touching. 'I want to continue working with you, see your genius in your creations, share my life with you, fall asleep next to you every night, feeling you, inhaling your scent, breathing you in -' He drew a breath and when he continued his voice was shaking. 'I am yours, Sherlock, and you are mine - I love you.'

Sherlock's eyes widened with emotion, growing glassy with unshed tears. He bit his lips, fighting against the waterfall of emotions threatening to drown him. It was more than obvious that for once he did not have the words to answer.

'Let go,' John whispered, his voice muffled with emotion. 'Just let go.'

And Sherlock nodded, a sob escaping from somewhere deep down inside him. Suddenly his body was shaking all over, like a leaf trembling in the wind. He quickly sat up, wrapped his arms around John's naked torso, buried his face in his chest to make this _stop_ \- and then he just let go.

 

 

*******

 

 

'Anything to eat?' John called over his shoulder and walked barefoot from the bathroom to the kitchen, an ivory-coloured towel wrapped around his hips. 'Probably a bottle of bubbly and two gel eye masks,' John muttered under his breath.

'What?'

'Nothing, I was just ...' John's eyes widened in surprise. 'That's rather...'

'Splendid,' Sherlock finished and slid up behind him, wrapping his arms around John's naked torso and resting his chin on John's head. Standing togeher they marvelled at the lavishly filled fridge. There was a variety of cheese and cold meat, tubs of yoghurt, plain and fruit, vegetables and fruit, fresh milk, cream and butter. Sherlock made a mental note to thank Chloe in the morning. After all, it was not her job to do the shopping for them.

John licked his lips and grabbed a basket of fresh strawberries and some water and Sherlock added a jar of whipped cream.

 

*****

 

John took a sip of water and then dipped another strawberry into the cream. He popped the whole red berry into his mouth and closed his eyes in bliss, 'Delicious.'

'Indeed.'

Sherlock was sitting opposite John, clad in nothing but black briefs, his long, lean legs stretched out in front of him, his curls still damp. He had regained his composure, the feeling of being loved and to love responsible for the unknown lightness spreading in his chest. He narrowed his eyes and licked his lips. He found watching John eating one strawberry after the other strangely enjoyable and it enticed him into eating as well, even though he was not particularly hungry.

And so his long fingers closed around a large and perfectly round berry and dipped it into the cream before he lifted it to his mouth. A great dollop of cream slipped off and landed on his chest, prettily adding yet another shade of pale to the prevailing paleness. Sherlock stared at it, mildly offended, it seemed. John stopped chewing and stared at the cream as well before he got up in a sudden flurry of movement.

'Let me!' he said and straddled Sherlock. Carefully he lowered himself onto his thighs and bent forward. His tongue darted out, licking the cream off the pale skin. Sherlock followed this performance with interest, his eyes wide open and his lips slightly parted. John swallowed, a wicked smile lighting up his face and then his tongue darted out yet again to lick off the tiny specks he had missed.

Grinning they locked eyes.

Without breaking eye contact Sherlock dipped the berry he was still holding between thumb and index finger into the cream once more, covering it entirely. He offered it to John who took a tiny bite, before Sherlock popped it between his lips and surged forward to kiss John, both of them squashing the ripe fruit with their lips and teeth, the sweet taste filling their mouths, the juice running down their chins.

They kissed, sweet strawberry and cream flavoured kisses, those sweet kisses soon turning heated, leaving them panting, tongues darting in and out of their mouths, exploring, gasping. Fingers running through hair, tugging, fingernails scratching at skin, hips rolling, their arousal mounting and seeking friction. Both of them moaning, moving until the closeness was not close enough, the intimacy not intimate enough and they got up, stumbling to the bedroom, never once breaking contact.

 

 

*******

 

 

Sherlock was a light sleeper and the low ping of the text alert was enough to wake him. He blinked his eyes open, yawning. His first instinct was to glance at John who was sleeping beside him, his mouth slightly open and faint traces of strawberry juice still visible on his chin. Sherlock smiled and placed a light kiss on his chest, then grabbed the phone from the night table and walked over to the window for some privacy.

There were three new messages. He opened them and read.

 

_Do you miss me? M x_

_Let's meet. M x_

_Bored, darling? You know I can always help. M x_

 

With an annoyed click of the tongue he sent these three new messages the same road their predecessors had gone - seventy-three in total - With a swift motion of his thumb he deleted them.

Swaying lightly, he glanced outside at the breaking day, the cool morning breeze coming through the open window caressing his bare skin. He switched the mobile phone off and carelessly tossed it onto a chair. Stretching his back he yawned, he was bone-tired and longed to crawl back into bed to snuggle up to John and coax some warmth back into his cold toes.

He was halfway across the room when he stopped in his tracks, standing completely still. Something was troubling him, a vague memory lifting its head, making itself heard, something he had always meant to do and had forgotten completely. He closed his eyes and moved his head to the left and to the right, and his hands slowly up and down. And then it clicked.

Quietly he left their bedroom and went down the hall and into the kitchen. After a bit of rummaging through the drawers he found a piece of paper and a pencil. Sitting down at the table he wrote:

_To do: Thank-you card for temping agency, large Fortnum and Mason's food basket, bouquet of roses etc. etc... URGENT!!!_

He placed the note on the large table, the pencil atop of it, and lightly tapped his fingernail against the blue wooden shell of the pencil.

Yes, that was the least he could do for the person who had helped to change his life. For the person who had sent him love, who had sent him his John.

 

 

***** The End *****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it ... fluffy, fluffety fluff!  
> Thank you so much for reading this AU!  
> I want to especially thank on ffnet: Mapleleafcameo, Thilbo4Ever, Sweetmarly, EJBrush1952, ta28, stardiva, sherlockian-quiet, florencesigna and Old Ping Hai  
> And on AO3: LadyLaran, Cure, watercolored_harmony, WitchRavenFox, Ewebie, Godiva33, Bluebird_Alice, Halane, SassyVeeDub, LittleAlma, CowMow, Blackbird_y, JuJuBee, Icanwritesee, steidz, sweetscribe, MmeLibrarian8, ylc, JPerceval, stingrayoflight, Itsallgood, Claudeknits and Silvergirl - (and of course everybody on tumblr who enjoyed reading this) for their great support! Please forgive me if I forgot to mention you, but rest assured that every single comment made my day! I have to admit that I was very disappointed with the lack of response this fic was getting for a while, and it's down to you all, you lovely people, that I did not abandon it!!!!  
> See you soon,  
> JJ xx

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it :)  
> I stumbled over this half-written first chapter today and decided to finish it. I can't even remember why I chose this verse - High Fashion and Sherlock as an arrogant designer - but I enjoy writing it and, of course, there will be more and I really hope you'll enjoy the next chapters as well!  
> JJ xx


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